Page 34 of Bad Habits

“Go to bed,” he said. Words cut short.

I didn’t respond, only let my jeans slide further, fabric peeling away from skin, baring myself inch by sinfully deliberate inch. His gaze collided with mine, heat and ice locked in a silent battle as he took in the sight of me exposing flesh that ached for him.

His steps were measured, control etched into every line of his body. The soft click of his watch unclasping echoed like a gunshot in the quiet condo. Time stood still; our gazes tethered.

“Fuck me, Daddy.” I broke the silence, the words laced with venomous need. It was more than a plea—it was a demand, a dare for him to cross the line we both knew had already been blurred beyond recognition. “Fuck me like you hate me.”

Denim whispered to the floor, a slow dance of fabric descending as Weston’s jeans pooled around his ankles. His eyes locked onto mine, the intensity never faltering even as he stepped out of his constraints.

“But I don’t hate you,” he breathed, words slicing through the thick heat that wrapped around us.

A laugh rumbled up from my throat, low and sinful, vibrating against the walls of the room. “Okay, then fuck me like you love me,” I said, letting my words taint the air like a molten thread pulling at the fabric of whatever restraint still clung to him.

His brow arched, a silent warning etched above those scrutinizing eyes. “You better be out of your clothes and under the covers ready for bed when I come back out,” he said, voice low, a thread of something like concern—or was it command?—weaving through the words.

“Sure thing, boss.” I shot him a salute, the mockery clear in the tilt of my lips, even as he turned his back on me.

The door clicked shut behind him, a barrier now standing between us. But barriers were meant to be broken, weren’t they? Or at least, utterly ignored. I stripped, no patience for the slow tease of cloth against skin. Jeans yanked down, kicked off, shirt flung somewhere into the corners of the room. I pulled the covers back, but not for sleep—fuck no. They served no purpose tonight. The bed dipped under my weight as I climbed onto it, knees sinking into the soft mattress. I settled in, ass propped up, an invitation written in the curve of my spine.

The bathroom door swung open, breaking the stillness. A wave of steam rolled out, carrying the rich, musky scent of Weston’s body wash—it was like getting hit by a goddamn aphrodisiac grenade. The sharp tang punched through the air, winding around my senses. He stepped out, all glistening skin and hard lines—a walking, breathing temptation with water droplets trailing down that bruised torso. My eyes snagged on his cock, half-hard and promising. Every inch of him screamed fuckable luxury, and hell if I didn’t want to take a ride on that high-class dick.

“Ah,” he said, voice laced with surprise or amusement—couldn’t tell which.

His gaze roamed over the expanse of my bared skin. My ass felt the burn of his stare like a physical touch, heat pooling where his eyes lingered longest. He moved to dim the light, casting the room into shadows that clung to his form, turning him into some sort of predatory silhouette. He pulled open the drawer, the smooth slide of it as loud in the quiet as a fucking gunshot. His fingers closed around a bottle, clear liquid inside thick and slow-moving. My pulse hammered against my throat as he climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Yeah, this was happening. And damn if I wasn’t ready to get wrecked. I inhaled and exhaled slowly as the air crackled with tension, heavy and thick, just like the lube Weston slicked over himself. My back arched instinctively, a silent plea etched in every line of my body.

“What happened to you calling the shots? Making me kneel? Fucking me senseless? Hmm? Or are you done with all that?” His words were a taunt, laced with a poisonous sarcasm I couldn’t resist.

I rolled my head, meeting his gaze. A low moan rumbled from my chest, vibrating through the room as my hand clamped down on my throbbing cock, squeezing hard enough to draw more than just pleasure.

Weston’s laugh was a dark sound, resonating with promised decadence. “Get over here and ride Daddy’s cock.”

My legs moved before I could think, muscle memory taking over, drawn by the raw need in his tone. I hovered, a breath away from the heat that radiated off his body. The tip of Weston’s cock nudged against me, a silent command begging for entry. I eased down, each inch a stretch of sweet agony, my body yielding to his insistent push.

“Fuck,” I gasped as he filled me, a perfect fit in the ache I didn’t know I had. His hands gripped tighter, anchoring me as I adjusted to his size.

“Ride me, boy.” His voice was a growl, low and filthy, demanding everything I had. I met his gaze, the connection electric, unbreakable.

I surged up, thrusting hard against his hips, my cock sliding between our bodies in a slick glide. My fingertips dug into his thighs, nails cutting into his skin as I clawed for purchase. Each thrust, each grind against his groin, was a testament to the wild, carnal creature inside me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I breathed, my voice ragged and raw.

Weston bucked beneath me. His hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh. “That’s it,” he growled, his voice rough with need. “Take it. Take my cock.”

I moaned, the sound low and animalistic as I lifted and slammed myself back down, driving us both closer to the edge. Sweat beaded on my forehead, dripped down my spine. I rode him hard, every slam a shockwave of pleasure. Sweat dampened our bodies, the air thick with our lust, the scent of sex and sweat filling the room.

“Take it,” he snarled, eyes dark. “Take all of Daddy’s cock.”

He cursed beneath me, the words throaty and thick. His cock throbbed inside me, a relentless pulse that matched the ferocity of my heartbeat.

“Good boy, fucking yourself on my dick like you were made for it.” A thrust, praise and profanity punctuated each word, blending into one.

“More,” I panted, the demand torn from my lips. Weston obliged, his hands guiding my frantic pace, pushing me to the brink.

“Filthy little fuck, look at you.” He sneered, but his eyes betrayed him, alight with that same fire that scorched through my veins. “So eager for it, so hungry for my cock. I’m going to fill your hole so good you’ll be dripping for days.”

My response was a keening cry, my body moving of its own volition. There was no space for thought, only the desperate clench and release of muscle, the slick glide of flesh on flesh, and the relentless pursuit of oblivion. He lifted and took my wrist in his hands, holding me in place before thrusting into me with no remorse. I took it, my eyes threating to roll to the back of my head as he pounded into me.

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