Page 54 of Until You Break
His smile ghosted my neck. “Good boy.” The third finger pushed in, slow and merciless. I hissed, body stretched to breaking. He scissored, withdrew a fraction, pushed again, patient as ruin. My legs shook.
He pumped me until I sobbed, hips pushing back despite myself, the stretch turning from sharp to something I could ride if I let it. I didn’t let it. I did anyway.
When he finally pulled his fingers free, I gasped at the loss. Then his cock pressed at my entrance, blunt, impossible.
“No—wait?—”
“Shh.” His mouth closed on my shoulder, teeth sinking until I cried out. “Breathe. Take me.”
The first push split me, fire and pressure, my nails clawing the table. He groaned, deep and raw. “Christ, you’re tight. Mine.”
He pressed deeper, inch by inch, a slow, ruthless claim. My body clenched, then yielded. When his cock brushed that spot inside, I jerked, a cry tearing from me I didn’t recognize.
“There.” He stilled, savoring. “That’s your sweet spot.” He pulled back and fed it to me again, precise, cruel, generous. I cried out, not in pain but something worse, pleasure I couldn’t deny.
“That’s it,” he said, settling into a rhythm that felt engineered to unmake me, each stroke angled perfect. “Cry for me. Let them hear you.”
I bit my lip until I tasted blood, but every thrust dragged a moan out of me. My cock leaked across the table, each grind pushing me closer. My hips found his rhythm at the edges, fighting and following in the same shudder.
His lips brushed my ear. “Feel that? My cock owning your prostate. That’s pleasure, not pain. That’s me teaching you who you belong to.”
Shame and heat tangled until I sobbed, “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“You. I belong to you.”
“Good boy.” He kissed me, filthy and soft, then pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in slow, humiliating. “Hear that? Your ass already knows me.”
I whimpered, shaking. He laughed, thrusting deep again until the table rattled. He changed the angle and stars burned at the edges of my sight.
Heat coiled, unbearable. “I…I can’t?—”
“Yes, you can.” His hand wrapped around my cock, slick with my mess. “You come when I say.”
He tormented me, stroking slow while pounding my prostate hard. My body twisted, desperate, begging without words. Hisbreath roughened at my neck, the heat of him a brand I would carry into sleep.
“Please,” I rasped, humiliation scalding.
“Now,” he ordered, voice sharp. “Come for me.”
I shattered, spilling across the table, body convulsing as pleasure ripped me apart. My cry broke high and wrecked. I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d wanted to. I didn’t want to.
He groaned, grinding deep, spilling inside me. His weight crushed me down, cock twitching until every drop filled me. He held there, burying the last of it with a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through bone.
He stayed inside, hand still on my cock, milking me through aftershocks. His lips brushed my ear. “Good boy. You took it all.”
I trembled, ruined, forehead pressed to the table. His praise burned worse than his teeth, and still my spent body warmed under it.
When he finally pulled free, hot slick dripped down my thighs. He caught it with his fingers, smeared it across my ass, marking me filthy. “Mine.” He spread my cheeks and watched it slide, obscene, and only then did he let the breath he was holding go.
He didn’t leave me wrecked there. He pulled me up, half-guided, half-dragged me toward the bathroom. His hands were gentler than his mouth, steady on my hips, a grip that promised he wouldn’t let me fall even if he’d been the one to make my knees useless.
Steam filled the shower fast, tile fogging. He pressed me against the wall, turned the spray on warm, and let it beat down until the bite left my skin. The water hissed, the world narrowed to heat and the echo of our breath.
I stood trembling under the spray while he soaped my skin, his touch still possessive, but slower now. He washed the mess from my thighs with his palms, slid lather over my calves, myknees, the ache of my hips, wiped my chest in long, unhurried strokes, then dragged his palm down my cock just once more, not to arouse, just to remind. He tipped my chin under the spray and rinsed my mouth with water from his palm like communion.
Then his mouth pressed lazy kisses into my shoulder, my neck, the damp curl of my hair. He turned me, kissed my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth, the bruise his fingers had made along my jaw, and then kissed me slow and unhurried. Not to take. To claim, yes—but softer. I hated how my chest ached for it and leaned in anyway.
