Page 39 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
And some sick part of me is desperate to be consumed. My inner muscles clench around him. I’m wetter by the second, melting in his fucking hands.
“My little kitten,” he grates as if in agony. “Always so fucking greedy.”
Our eyes meet. Lips again. Panting, I tug at his shirt. His pants. The second his cock is free, I rock my hips, and he enters me. It’s fire. Gasoline meeting a lit stick of dynamite.
He feels so good. Too good—despite there being no pain to feed off of. No nipping nails. No bitten flesh. Just him, slamming inside me in a ruthless rhythm. Like he’s too drunk off the feeling to crave the violence.
His fingers, slick with ice cream, paint a trail up and down my hips, grazing my nipples, heightening every sensation. Marking me.
Maybe it’s the heat or the sweat, but I’ve never been so wet. He’s never felt harder. Deeper. We move in sync, my body gripping him in desperate, grasping convulsions. And yet at the same time, there’s a rightness to it. A knowledge deep within that every quivering, yearning inch of flesh belongs to him.
I’m offering it to him.
And his answer lurks within the way his release floods me in waves of scorching fire.
He’ll take it all.
