A cry rips from my throat. My nails dig into his shoulders, and I’m certain I’ve left holes in his shirt. His groan is raw, guttural, vibrating straight through me like a goddamn earthquake.
I’m still sore from our session last night, and the sensation of pain and pleasure mixing together is enough to make me see unclearly.
"Jesus," I choke out. "You’re—"
But my words cut off in a sharp inhale as he pulls back, nearly out, before driving forward again.
It’s a filthy rhythm, deliberate, punishing. He knows exactly what he’s doing—knows how to drive me insane, how to push me to the edge without letting me tip over.
“Remember the rules, Princess,” he says. “You cüm, and you get to do whatever I want.”
I breathe in and out, wondering why I agreed to this stupid game. But I can’t back do
