The command in his voice, that rough, wrecked growl, sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the drafty window. When his fingers threaded into her hair, anchoring her, Cleo didn't pull away; she leaned into the grip, surrendering to the sudden shift in gravity between them. The heavy conversation about the future dissolved, replaced by the immediate, thrumming reality of his skin against hers.

"I can be your good girl," she purred against his skin, the vibration of her voice humming against his erection.

She didn't rush. Despite the urgency in his hips, she took her time, treating this with the same meticulous attention she gave her canvas. She hovered just millimeters away, letting her breath ghost over the sensitive skin before she finally made contact. Extending the very tip of her tongue, she found the prominent vein running along the underside of his shaft. She traced the length of it slowly, a feather-light, wet stroke that dragged from the base up toward the ridge, savoring the way he twitched in response.

Her hand wrapped around him, her grip firm but gentle, shielding the sensitive head as she swiped her tongue in a languid, deliberate circle around the very end. She tasted the salt and the pre-cum, glazing him slowly as her hand began a rhythmic, velvet stroke up and down the length of him.

Sensing the angle wasn't quite right for what she wanted to do next, she pulled back just an inch, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark as she looked up at him.
"Lean back a little more," she whispered, her voice husky. She tapped his thigh lightly. "And lift your hips... yeah, buck out for me. Just like that."

She waited until he adjusted, watching him slide down the wall slightly and arch his pelvis forward, offering himself up to her completely. Satisfied, she moved her free hand underneath him. She cupped his balls, the weight of them heavy and warm in her palm. She was careful not to squeeze, simply holding them, letting her fingers roll them gently within her grasp to ground him.

With him positioned perfectly, she locked eyes with him one last time, letting him see the intent in her gaze. Then, she lowered her head. She parted her lips and slid down, taking the head of his penis into the wet heat of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing slightly as she sealed her lips around him, silencing the room with the wet, intimate sound of her devotion.

She worshipped him with a devout, agonizing slowness, making good on her promise to be his distraction. She didn't just use her mouth; she used everything—the suction of her cheeks, the swirl of her tongue, the tight, wet heat of her throat as she bobbed her head in a steady, maddening rhythm.

She kept her eyes open, looking up at him through her lashes, watching his face contort with pleasure as she worked. She loved the power shift, the way this strong, composed man who held her together was now unraveling completely at her mercy. She hummed against his skin, the vibration traveling straight down his shaft, enjoying the way his hips jerked and his hands tightened painfully in her hair.

She pulled back just enough to take a breath, the cold air hitting her wet lips, before she decided she wanted more. She wanted all of him.

She relaxed her jaw, opening her throat as she let go of the control she’d been holding onto. With a sudden, fluid determination, she slid down the length of him. She didn't stop at the head this time. She pushed forward, forcing him past her tongue, past her soft palate, taking him deep until her nose brushed against the coarse hair at the base of his stomach.

She gagged slightly, a reflexive, wet sound that vibrated against him, but she didn't pull back. Instead, she held him there, her throat clamping tight around his thickness, engulfing him completely. She squeezed his balls gently with one hand while the other stroked the very base of his shaft, keeping him buried deep inside her warmth, letting him feel the absolute, suffocating pleasure of being completely taken.

She kept him there for a long, breath-stealing moment, letting the sheer size of him stretch her throat until her eyes watered. It was an overwhelming fullness, a complete invasion that she welcomed, letting the reflex of her throat squeeze around him in tight, rhythmic spasms that she knew felt incredible.

When she finally pulled back, she didn't let go of the suction. She dragged her lips slowly up the length of his shaft, creating a vacuum so tight it hollowed her cheeks. The sound was wet and obscene in the quiet room—a slick, slurping noise that seemed to amplify the harsh rasp of his breathing.

She didn't give him a second to recover. Just as the head popped past her lips, leaving him glistening and exposed to the cool air for a fraction of a second, she dove back down.

This time, she established a rhythm—brutal and beautiful. She bobbed her head with a dedicated fervor, her hair messy and wild around her face, moving back and forth like a curtain with every thrust. She took him deep, pulled back, and slammed down again, her nose burying into his pubic hair every time she bottomed out on him.

She used her hand in tandem with her mouth, twisting her grip at the base to work the skin he loved, milking him while her throat took the rest. She could feel his hips snapping forward to meet her, his control shattering as his fingers tightened bruisingly in her hair, but she didn't stop. She swallowed him whole, over and over, determined to drain every drop of tension out of his body and replace it with this.

His head fell back against the wall with a dull thud, his eyes rolling back in his head as the first wet, hot slide of her tongue hit the vein on the underside of his cock.
He was a dead man. He knew it instantly.

The visual alone was enough to end him—Cleo, his brilliant, stubborn artist, on her knees in a pool of winter sunlight, her hair a wild curtain around her face, treating him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. But the feeling… the feeling was dismantling his nervous system wire by wire.

"Fuck," he hissed, the word fracturing on a sharp intake of breath as she obeyed his body’s involuntary twitch, her hand soothing him while her mouth tormented him.

He did exactly what she asked. He slid down the wall, his legs spreading wider, his hips bucking forward to meet her. It was instinct. It was surrender. When she cupped him, holding the weight of him in her palm, he felt a guttural groan tear out of his chest.

Then she took him.

The sensation of her hot, wet mouth sealing around the head was electric, but when she relaxed her throat and swallowed him whole, Ben’s vision actually whited out for a second.
The shock of the depth—the feeling of sliding past her tongue, past her soft palate, and burying himself in the tight, convulsing heat of her throat—made his entire body jerk. His hands, which had been gripping her scalp, tightened instinctively, his fingers tangling violently in the thick strands of her hair.

She’s taking all of it.

The realization roared through his blood, hotter than the fire they’d built last night. He could feel the vibration of her gag reflex against the head of his cock, a tight, fluttering squeeze that felt so good it bordered on pain.

"Jesus Christ, Cleo," he choked out, his voice a jagged, unrecognizable ruin. "You're—fuck, you're so deep."

He looked down, forcing his eyes open through the haze of pleasure because he needed to see this. He needed the image burned into his brain forever. The sight of her nose buried in his hair, her cheeks hollowed, her eyes watering but locked on his… it was the most obscene, beautiful thing he had ever seen.

When she began to move, pulling back only to slam down on him again, creating that wet, suctioned vacuum, Ben lost the ability to stand still.

He couldn't just let her do the work. The primitive need to claim that mouth took over.
He kept his hands fisted in her hair, using the grip to guide her, to anchor her. He began to snap his hips forward, meeting her rhythm, fucking into the wet heat of her mouth with a desperate, jerky cadence.

"That's it," he growled, looking down at her with a dark, possessive fervor. "Take it. Be a greedy girl for me. Show me you can handle the mess."

The sound of it—the wet, slurping noise of her loving him, the soft gag when he hit bottom, the slap of his skin against her lips—filled the quiet cabin. It drowned out the wind. It drowned out his panic.

She was right. He wasn't thinking about the tour bus. He wasn't thinking about the future. He was only thinking about how tight her throat was, and how badly he wanted to flood it.

"Don't stop," he warned, his voice straining, his legs shaking as the pressure built to a terrifying peak. "Don't you dare stop. You said you wanted to show me? Then show me."

The praise was a drug, breathless and rough, and Cleo drank it down just as eagerly as she took him. Hearing Ben—usually so composed, so charmingly articulate—reduced to jagged curses and guttural demands ignited a fierce sense of power in her chest. She had done this. She was unraveling him.

His fingers were tangled tight in her hair, a heavy, grounding weight that steered her, and she leaned into the command. She wanted him to use her. She wanted to be the only thing in his world that made sense.

When he hissed for her to be greedy, she didn't hesitate. She relaxed her jaw, ignoring the ache in the hinges, and dragged her lips all the way down the length of him. It was a tight, overwhelming fullness that stretched her to her limit. She forced her throat open, swallowing him down until her nose brushed against his pelvis, her body convulsing in a sharp, wet gag that clamped around him like a fist. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision, but she didn't pull back. Instead, she hummed against the intrusion, letting the vibration shudder through both of them.

She felt his hips snap forward, fucking into her face with that desperate, jerky cadence, and she met him halfway. She began to move faster, creating a maddening suction as she swirled her tongue around the sensitive ridge of the head before sliding down to engulf him again.

While one hand stayed wrapped around the base of him, keeping him steady, her other hand wandered. She needed to feel the havoc she was wreaking on the rest of him. Her palm slid up over the rigid, sweating planes of his abs, tracing the line of hair until she splayed her fingers wide over his chest.

His heart was hammering against her palm—a frantic, erratic bird trying to beat its way out of a cage. The feeling of that wild, thundering pulse egged her on more than his words ever could. It was the physical proof that he was on the edge, that he was losing the battle for control.

"I’ve got you," she thought, the words lost in the wet, slurping sound of her mouth working him.

She bobbed her head faster, the rhythm sloppy and eager. Every time she bottomed out, taking him deep enough to trigger that reflex, her throat squeezed him in a spasm that made his thighs tremble against her shoulders. She choked around him, a guttural, wet sound, but she kept going, driven by the way his back arched against the wall and the way his grip in her hair tightened to the point of pain. She wanted to ruin him. She wanted to take everything he had to give.

The friction was blinding.

Every time she bobbed her head, dragging that wet, hot suction down the length of him, Ben felt another wire in his brain snap. The sensation of her throat—tight, slick, and convulsing around him—was dismantling him cell by cell. He was dangerously close to the edge, his hips betraying him as they snapped forward to meet her rhythm, chasing the release that was coiling, white-hot and painful, in his groin.

He could feel the vibration of her humming against his skin, a sonic plea that traveled straight to his marrow. It would be so easy to just let go. To tangle his fingers in her hair, hold her there, and pour himself down her throat like she was begging him to.

But as he looked down at her—at the chaotic curtain of her hair, the hollow of her cheek, the absolute devotion in her movement—something darker than simple lust clawed its way up his chest.

It wasn't enough.

He didn't just want to be serviced. He didn't want to just finish and be done. He wanted to consume her. He wanted to wreck her just as thoroughly as she was wrecking him. He wanted to taste his own release on her tongue, but he wanted to taste her more.
"Fuck," he gritted out, the word tearing through his clenched teeth.

With a growl that rumbled deep in his chest, Ben tightened his fist in her hair. He didn't use the grip to anchor her this time; he used it to take control.

"Stop," he commanded, his voice a jagged ruin.

He yanked her back—not gently, but with a firm, undeniable authority. The sound of the disconnect was obscene, a wet, suctioned pop that echoed loudly in the quiet cabin as he dragged himself from the tight, wet heat of her mouth.

Cleo let out a small, protest noise, a whimper of confusion, but Ben didn't let up. He kept his fist wound in her hair, keeping her head tipped back, exposing her face to the unforgiving winter light.

He needed to see this.

She looked devastated in the most beautiful way possible. Her lips were swollen, cherry-red and slick with his saliva. Her eyes were glazed, heavy-lidded and blown wide with a hazy, drugged lust. A single, thin strand of spit connected her bottom lip to her chin, a shimmering testament to how deep she’d taken him.

The sight of her, on her knees and marked by him, sent a fresh wave of adrenaline crashing through his system that nearly buckled his legs.

"Jesus, look at you," he rasped, his chest heaving as he stared down at her with a dark, predatory hunger.

He reached down with his free hand, his thumb pressing hard against her wet lower lip. He swiped roughly, smearing the moisture, pressing into the plush flesh until she gasped.

"You think you’re done?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low-frequency vibration. "You think you get to just kneel there and look pretty while I lose my damn mind?"
He didn't give her a second to answer. The primitive need to taste her, to bury his face in her heat and drown there, overtook him completely.

He released her hair and immediately grabbed her by the hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin.
"Nuh-uh, baby," he growled, his eyes flashing. "My turn."

He moved with a sudden, fluid power that brooked no argument. He didn't care about the painting, the easel, or the expensive knit blanket; he kicked the fabric aside with his foot as he pressed her backward.

"Down," he ordered, following her as she sank to the floorboards.

He loomed over her, blotting out the sun, his body a heavy, heat-radiating presence. He didn't wait for her to settle. He caught her legs, hooking his hands firmly under her knees and spreading them wide apart, forcing her open to him.

He settled heavily between her thighs, the muscles in his arms cording as he braced himself on the floor on either side of her hips. He lowered his head until his nose brushed against hers, letting her feel the harsh, ragged cadence of his breathing.

"You wanted to start this?" he murmured against her mouth, his voice dripping with a filthy, possessive promise. "Then you better be ready to finish it. Because I’m not stopping until I taste every single inch of you."

The sudden absence of him left her mouth feeling shockingly empty and cold, the cool cabin air hitting her wet lips and cheeks. She was dazed, her head swimming from the lack of oxygen and the sheer intensity of the last few minutes. When he wiped her lip with his thumb, pressing into the swollen flesh, a shiver rattled through her that had nothing to do with the winter draft.

She didn't fight him as he pressed her backward. She felt boneless, her limbs heavy and pliable under his hands. As her back hit the floorboards, she looked up at him—he was a silhouette against the window now, blocking out the sun, nothing but broad shoulders and tension.

When he hooked her knees and spread her wide, she let her legs fall open, abandoning all modesty. She was completely exposed to him, panting softly, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.

She reached up, her hands resting tentatively on his biceps, feeling the iron-hard tension in his arms as he hovered over her.

"I wasn't..." she whispered, her voice breathless and threading with honesty as she stared up into his dark eyes. "I wasn't looking for a trade, Ben. I didn't do it to get something back."

She licked her lips, tasting the salt and the lingering taste of him, her gaze dropping to his mouth before flickering back up to his eyes.

"I just wanted to make you feel good," she confessed, her voice dropping to a hush. "I just wanted to taste you. That was enough."

Her fingers tightened on his arms, her hips shifting slightly against the floorboards as the heat of his body radiated over her sensitive skin.

"But..." She let out a shaky exhale, her eyes fluttering half-shut as she surrendered to the look on his face. "If you're willing... if you want to... I'll take it. God, I'll take anything you give me."

Her words—soft, honest, and utterly selfless—were the final nail in the coffin of his restraint.

I didn't do it to get something back.

It hit him in the chest, a sweet, heavy ache that instantly soured into a dark, ravenous hunger. She was so willing to give everything and ask for nothing, and that just made him want to force everything on her. He didn't want her to just "take" it; he wanted her to drown in it.

"Too bad, baby," he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "Because you're getting it anyway. You don't get to be this wet and expect me to walk away."

He didn't waste another second. He dragged his hands down her sides, his palms rough against her soft skin, until he gripped her thighs. He shoved her legs further apart, widening her stance until she was completely open to him, a banquet laid out in the winter sun.

He lowered his head, not to her center yet, but to the soft, pale skin of her inner thigh. He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss there, biting lightly, inhaling the scent of her—musk, arousal, and the faint, lingering oil paint. It was intoxicating.

"Fuck, you smell good," he murmured into her skin, his breath hot and damp.
He moved inward, his nose brushing against her curls, until he was face-to-face with her heat. She was glistening, swollen, and unmistakably ready for him. The sight of her pink, slick flesh waiting for him made his mouth water.

He didn't tease. He didn't start slow.

He buried his face in her pussy with a guttural groan, his tongue sweeping out in a long, broad stroke from bottom to top. He tasted her instantly—salt and sweet and unmistakably her.

She tasted like home. She tasted like trouble.

"Mmm," he hummed against her, the vibration buzzing directly against her sensitive flesh.
He latched onto her clit, sucking it into his mouth with a greedy, rhythmic suction that matched the way she had just treated him. He worked her with his tongue, flicking hard and fast, determined to make her hips buck off the floor. He wanted to hear the wet, sloppy sounds of his own hunger echoing in the room.

He felt her thighs tremble against his ears, felt her hands finding his hair again, and it fueled him.

He slid one hand down, his fingers slick with her juices, and pushed two fingers deep inside her. She was tight, hot, and clamped down around him instantly.
"So wet," he mumbled against her clit, not stopping the relentless flick of his tongue. "You taste so fucking good, babe. Like sugar and sin."

He began to pump his fingers in a curling, "come-hither" motion, hitting her g-spot with brutal precision while his mouth continued its assault on her clit. He was eating her like a starving man, slurping and licking, catching every drop she gave him. He wanted to drink her. He wanted to stain his chin with her.

He pulled his face back just an inch, a string of saliva and slick connecting his lips to her folds, his eyes wild and dark as he looked up at her over her own mound.

"Open up," he commanded, his voice thick and filthy. "Wider. I want to get all the way in there."

He dove back down, burying his nose deep, his tongue fucking into her as he groaned, losing himself completely in the taste of the woman who owned him.

The shock of his mouth claiming her drew a sharp, shattered cry from her throat, her head falling back against the floor as her hips instinctively bucked up to meet his hunger.

Her fingers instantly found the crown of his head, weaving through the thick strands to find purchase against his scalp. She needed an anchor, something to hold onto as he began to dismantle her, and he was the only solid thing in a world that was suddenly spinning out of control. With every heavy, sweeping lick of his tongue, her nails dug in, scratching dragging lines against his skin, a sharp counterpoint to the wet heat he was lavishing on her.

"Ben," she choked out, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears.

It was different than the fever pitch of last night. Yes, he was still ravenous, his beard still burned pleasantly against her thighs, and his fingers were still curling inside her with possessive, brutal intent—but beneath the growls and the filth, there was a worshipful adoration today. Last night felt like he needed to survive her; today felt like he wanted to live inside her. It was a softer, deeper kind of devastation.

When he looked up, eyes wild and demanding she open wider, she didn't hesitate. She couldn't have denied him if she tried. She spread her legs further, her heels digging into the floorboards, offering him everything she had.

"Please," she whimpered, her nails flexing and contracting in his hair, scratching rhythmically as he dove back in. "Don't stop... God, Ben, don't stop."

The sensation was a tidal wave, drowning out every thought in her head until only the feeling of him remained. The relentless, curling motion of his fingers inside her, hitting that sweet spot with punishing accuracy, combined with the broad, starving strokes of his tongue was too much, and yet, nowhere near enough.

Her whimpers spilled out in a broken, steady stream, a helpless soundtrack to his feast. "Mmn... oh, god... Ben..."

She couldn't stay still. Her hips rolled instinctively, trying to grind down against his mouth, chasing the pressure, needing to be closer than physically possible. Her fingers tightened in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as she pulled him harder against her, silently begging him to devour her whole. Every time he sucked hard against her clit, a sharp, high-pitched noise tore from her throat, her head tossing restlessly against the floorboards.

"It feels... so much," she breathed, her voice cracking, trembling just like her thighs. She was completely at his mercy, unraveling with every lap of his tongue, her entire body arching like a bow string pulled tight.

Her head thrashed from side to side, her hair fanning out like a dark halo on the floorboards as the pleasure mounted, becoming sharp, bright, and almost unbearable.

"I love it," she moaned, the words ragged and breathless, falling from her lips in a chaotic tumble. "God, Benjiman, I love the way you taste me... I love how hungry you are for me."

She dragged her nails down his scalp, shuddering violently as his fingers curled deeper, stretching her, claiming her. She was sobbing with the intensity of it, completely undone by the wet, hot friction of his mouth.

"I love it... I love you," she cried out, her voice breaking as her hips ground down hard against his face. "Don't stop, baby, please... I love feeling you everywhere."

The sound of his full name falling from her lips, broken and desperate, snapped something vital in Ben’s chest. Benjiman. She only used it when she was completely unraveled, when the walls were down and she was stripping him to his core.

The sting of her nails dragging against his scalp was a sharp, grounding pain that only fueled the fire in his blood. He didn't want gentle. He wanted this—Cleo, wild and vocal, writhing on the floorboards, begging him not to stop.

"I’m not stopping," he growled against the wet heat of her center, the vibration of his voice humming directly against her sensitive skin. "I’m never stopping."

He needed to taste her more deeply. He needed to consume the very reaction he had wrung out of her.

Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his fingers. The friction of the exit drew a long, shaky whine from her, but he didn't leave her empty for even a second. Before the air could cool her skin, he sealed his mouth over her, his tongue diving in to replace his fingers with a broad, flat stroke that mimicked the thrust she was craving.

He lifted his hand, his eyes dark and blown wide as he looked at his own fingers. They were glistening, coated in the slick, heavy proof of her desire. The sight alone nearly sent him over the edge.

He didn't wipe it away. He wanted to be covered in her.

With a rough, needy noise, Ben reached down and wrapped that same hand around his own hardening length. The sensation of her slickness against his skin was electric—hot, velvety, and maddeningly perfect. It was the most intimate lubrication he could imagine, a physical manifestation of her want wrapping around him.

He began to stroke himself, his grip tight, his rhythm matching the frantic, hungry pace of his tongue.

"Fuck, baby..." he murmured against her, the words lost in the wet sounds of his worship.
He wasn't done with her yet. His other hand moved up, thumb and forefinger finding the swollen pearl of her clitoris. He didn't tease. He dominated it. He circled and pressed with a firm, relentless pressure, trapping her between the invasion of his tongue and the external torment of his hand.

He heard her cry out, heard the way her breath hitched into those jagged, sobbing moans that were his favorite song in the world. She was saying she loved him, saying she loved his hunger, and every word was like gasoline.

He licked deeper, tasting his own work, his tongue swirling and stabbing while his hand worked faster on his own cock. He was jerking off to the taste of her, to the sound of her falling apart, using her own body’s reaction to drive himself toward the precipice.

"I love you," he gritted out against her slick flesh, unable to keep the words inside. He looked up through his lashes, watching her face contort in pleasure, watching her head thrash. "I love how wet you get for me. I love tasting you."

He pumped his hand faster, the drag of her fluids making it agonizingly good, while he sucked harder at her center, determined to drag that climax out of her one more time before he let himself go. He wanted to feel her shudder against his mouth while he spilled into his own hand, completely surrounded by her.

The sensation of his tongue combined with the relentless, circling pressure of his hand was a sensory overload that shattered her ability to think. His words—gritty, raw, and vibrating against her skin—were the final undoing. Hearing him claim her, hearing him say he loved the taste of her while he pleasured himself to the very thought of it, made her back arch violently off the floorboards.

She was crying out, incoherent sounds of affirmation and need that tore from her throat as she thrashed against his mouth. It was agonizingly good, but the sight of his hand moving on himself, coated in her, ignited a different kind of desperation. It wasn't enough. She didn't just want his mouth; she needed the fullness of him. She needed to be completely filled, to have him occupy the space he was currently worshiping.

The earlier hesitation, the logic, the careful planning—it all incinerated in the heat of the moment. The Plan B was there. It was a safety net, a contingency they had discussed, and right now, it felt less like a backup plan and more like a permission slip.

"Baby, please," she gasped, her hands leaving his hair to blindly claw at his shoulders, trying to drag him up, trying to bring that friction she saw him giving himself to where she needed it most. "I can't... I need you inside. Please."

She looked down at him through a haze of tears and lust, her chest heaving as she begged him, her voice cracking with the sheer force of her want.

"The Plan B... we can get the Plan B," she sobbed out, frantic to dismantle whatever resolve he had left. “I don’t care about anything else. Just put it in. I need to feel you inside me, Benjamin. Don't make me wait."

The permission seemed to snap the last tether holding him back. He didn't waste a second, didn't offer a single word of argument or hesitation. The only sound from him was a harsh, guttural intake of air that sounded painfully like relief.

He scrambled up her body, the movement frantic and uncoordinated, his skin slick with sweat as he dragged himself over her. The "Plan B" they had spoken of felt less like a contingency now and more like a necessary indulgence, a silent agreement that hung heavy and electric between them. It was a risk, but looking at the raw, starving hunger in his eyes, it was one she was desperate to take.

He braced himself over her, his arms trembling from the strain of holding back. He looked wrecked, his hair falling into his eyes, his gaze locked on hers with a silent, agonizing plea that burned hotter than any touch. He was asking without speaking, his hips pressing forward, testing the entrance, seeking the heat she had promised him.

Cleo met that silent beg with a arch of her back, lifting herself to meet him.

The moment she said it—Plan B—the last remaining barrier in his mind disintegrated. It wasn't just permission; it was a demand, and god help him, he was only too happy to obey.

He didn't speak. He couldn't. The blood roaring in his ears drowned out everything but the sound of her wet, broken breathing and his own heart hammering against his ribs. He scrambled up her body, a frantic tangle of limbs and sweat, until he was hovering over her, bracing his weight on his forearms.

He looked down at her—flushed, desperate, her lips still slick from his cock—and felt a surge of possessiveness so violent it nearly blurred his vision.

"You want it?" he rasped, his voice a jagged shard of sound. "Then take it, baby."

He didn't wait. He lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against her wet heat, and with one heavy, fluid motion, he sank into her.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head dropping forward as the tight, hot velvet of her walls clamped around him. She was so slick, so ready, that he slid all the way home in a single stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sensation was blinding—a total, encompassing warmth that felt like coming home and burning alive at the same time.

For a second, he just held there, vibrating with the effort of not moving, letting the feeling of being inside her recalibrate his entire world.

Then, the animal took over.

He pulled back and snapped his hips forward, driving into her with a brutal, punishing speed. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The sound of his pelvis slamming against hers filled the cabin, wet and obscene. He fucked her hard, his hands gripping her shoulders to anchor her as he drove deep, chasing the friction, chasing the madness. He wanted to pound the desperation out of her, to replace every thought in her head with the feeling of him filling her up.

"Yeah, take it," he growled, watching her head thrash against the floorboards. "You feel that? That’s mine."

But just as the rhythm threatened to drag him over the edge, Ben forced himself to stop.
He clamped his hands on the floor beside her head, his triceps trembling with the strain, and withdrew slowly. Agonizingly slowly. He dragged himself out inch by inch, letting her feel the friction of the ridges, letting her feel the emptiness return.

He stopped just at the entrance, the tip of his cock teasing the swollen opening, hovering there.

He looked down at her, sweat dripping from his nose onto her chest. He saw her hips buck up, silently begging him to come back, and a dark, sadistic smirk curled his lip.

"Impatient," he whispered, his voice a low, teasing vibration. "You gotta wait for it, baby."

He began to move again, but this time it was a torture. He rolled his hips in a slow, grinding circle, rubbing the head of his cock against her sensitive interior without giving her the depth she wanted. He watched her face contort, watched her mouth open in a silent plea, and he reveled in it.

He pushed in an inch. Pulled back. Ground down.

"Look at you," he murmured, watching her squirm beneath him. "So empty. You want me back in there? You want me to fill you up again?"

He let the tension build, let the air in the room get thick and suffocating with her silent need, until he couldn't stand it either.

With a sudden, guttural roar, he abandoned the game. He slammed back into her, bottoming out with a force that knocked the breath out of both of them. He returned to the violence, his hips a blur of motion, fucking her with a hard, relentless cadence that promised he wasn't going to stop until he had poured every single drop of himself into her.