Page 151 of Misery
"Stop making me beg for what's already mine."
He rolls me onto my back, settles between my thighs.
We're both still in underwear, that last barrier.
His weight on me feels right. Safe but not suffocating. "You're sure?"
"Stop asking. Just fuck me already."
The rest of our clothes disappear with fumbling hands and nervous laughter when his boxers get caught on his foot.
Then he's there, right there, pressing against me, waiting for final permission.
"Please," I whisper.
He enters me slowly, watching my face for any sign of distress.
There isn't any.
Just want, need, completion.
Like pieces of a puzzle finally fitting together.
"Okay?"
"Perfect."
He moves, slow at first, then faster as I urge him on with hands and hips and words.
This isn't tender lovemaking.
It's claiming. Reclaiming. Taking back what trauma tried to steal.
It's writing our own story over the one that was forced on us.
"Mine," I gasp as pleasure builds.
"Yours," he agrees. "Always yours."
"Yes."
I flip us, taking control.
Riding him while he watches with wonder and something like worship.
This is my choice, my body, my pleasure.
He's just lucky to be included.
"Touch me," I demand.
His thumb finds my clit, circles with exactly the pressure I need.
He learned that from watching but I'm choosing to benefit from that knowledge now. "Let go. I've got you."
I do.
I come apart while he watches with permission this time.
