Page 190 of Holding On To Good

Tugging her head back even farther, he leaned forward, setting one hand on the mattress behind her head, his hips pistoning, his length sawing in and out of her mouth.

There was no finesse. No control. It was raw and animalistic and just the tiniest bit frightening, being trapped between him and the bed, having him tower over her, his breathing loud and ragged.

It was more than a little wonderful discovering he could be pushed over the edge.

And incredibly intimate, being the woman who got to see him this way.

But mostly it was thrilling, knowing she had this much power over him.

It made them both vulnerable. Her trusting him enough to give him control.

Him trusting her enough to take it.

He was usually so far ahead of her with his quiet truths and solemn, heartfelt declarations, while she struggled to keep up, her fears holding her back.

For once, they were on a level playing field.

For once, she could give him something back. Something true and real and worthy of him.

He watched her with narrowed, glittering eyes, his jaw tight, expression hard, movements relentless. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You like this.”

Like it? She loved it. She was sopping wet, her sex pulsing with need, her nipples hard, tingling points. Knowing he wanted her so badly was incredibly hot. Making another of his fantasies come true was empowering.

Submitting to him was a huge turn-on.

So much that when he slowed and drew back so that once again, only the head of his cock stayed in her mouth, she whimpered, scared he was going to stop.

“You like this,” he repeated, his gruff tone heavy with desire, tinged with wonder. “Don’t you?”

Staring up at him, she nodded.

And was rewarded with a groan as he drove into her mouth with quick, hard thrusts that pushed her head back onto the mattress.

Her clit throbbed. Her core ached. Sliding her right hand between her legs, she lightly stroked herself, knowing he’d see her.

A tease for them both.

A test for him.

A way to push him even more. If only to discover what he’d do to push her back.

“Hands on your thighs,” he demanded again, his breathing heavy and unsteady.

But the hand in her hair was sure, the grip firm as he lowered it to the nape of her neck and squeezed. Her pussy clenched in sync with the pressure he exerted, her gasp of surprise, of pleasure, muffled by his cock. Moisture coated her fingers.

Instead of obeying, she rubbed her clit again. Moaned as she slid her forefinger inside her slick channel.

“That’s mine,” he growled, more beast than man, and gathered both her wrists in his free hand. Circling his fingers around them, he jerked them over her head. “Mine,” he repeated, pinning her hands to the mattress.

Her body arched, her nipples brushing against the coarse hairs on his thigh. She lifted her hips, seeking some sort of relief of the agonizing pressure in her center, the building tension, but there was nothing. Just Urban’s panting breaths and punishing grip and pumping cock.

She was helpless. A tool for his pleasure. A toy for him to play with however he chose.

It was erotic and intense and everything she’d been missing.

Everything she’d always secretly wanted but hadn’t been able to ask for.

And it was made even better because it was with Urban.

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