Page 74 of Filthy Little Fix
"You don't stop, do you?" he snarls, his voice vibrating through his chest and into mine. "Youhaveto beg for it."
His hands move from my chin to my neck. My pulse quickens under his skin.
He leans in, his mouth inches from mine.
"You wanted my attention, you needy whore," he whispers, his lips brushing mine. "Now you have it."
His hand digs in with force. With a single swift movement, he turns me.
My chest, my arms, the tip of my already hard cock, everything slams against the tiles of the wall. The contrast with the warm water and the soaked fabric of his clothes pressed against my back is delightful. He pins me.
"This," he growls in my ear. His free hand moves up, his fingers unceremoniously tangling in my hair. He pulls hard. My head is thrown back, and I arch my neck, exposing my throat to the jet of water.
I moan. It's exactly what I wanted.
His mouth brushes the skin behind my ear. "You like to obey, you fucking bitch?"
My knees feel weak. The word—bitch—goes straight to my cock.
He yanks my hair harder. "Answer."
Tears form in my eyes. The pressure in my scalp is exquisite. "Yes, mister."
I like to obey. I like to be used by him, I like to feel his strength—a single touch is all it takes for him to reduce me to nothing. He makes me want to kneel at his feet and give up every bit of power I have left. I would beg. I would fucking beg.
"That's all you do," he growls. "That's all youcando—take orders like the slut you are."
Fuck, his voice alone makes me want to cum. I would let him do anything he wanted—and he knows. He's felt me shake under his hand.
He moves his knee, nudging my legs apart, spreading my thighs. The feeling of his pants, soaking wet and glued to his muscular legs, pressing against me is fucking perfect. I move, wanting friction?—
He pushes my face against the tiles. "Don't fucking move."
I don't move. I wait.
I hear a zipper opening. The rustling of a belt. His free hand wraps around my throat and holds tight. He grinds against me, his hard cock rubbing against the crease between my ass.
I moan. It's too much. The hot water, the hard tiles, and his hand, tight, constricting. He squeezes and holds—fucking holds, pressing against my pulse. I'm lightheaded.
My cock aches.
"Don't come until I tell you," he orders.
The thick, hot tip of his cock slides down the cleft of my ass. My skin tingles, I clench. I wait—and I can feel the pressure of it as he begins to push against my entrance.
"Don't you fucking come without my permission."
Fuck. Fuck, that's good.
"Dante," I say his name with reverence. Like I fucking mean it. "Fuck, Dante."
He pushes harder.
His free hand wraps around my hip, and he yanks, forcing me to feel every bit of him. He sinks his fingers in the skinof my hip—a reminder—and thrusts hard. My muscles try to tighten, to shut him out, but there's no strength left. He pushes in anyway—dry, brutal—and it fucking hurts. God, I want it to hurt. The sudden fullness forces a ragged moan out of my chest as my fingers scramble for something to hold onto and I scratch, useless, at the smooth wet tiles.
The hand on my hip slides forward, curling around my cock.
He's in control of everything, every bit of it—the pleasure hits me as he pumps inside me, again and again. His hand strokes up, twisting, sliding down—the lack of air—the sensation of it—his cock—I feel dizzy—everything is spinning, all I can think about is him.
