Page 121 of Filthy Rich Santas

“Yes,” I whisper, shaking.

“Color?”

“G-g-green. Green, sir.”

He bites the back of my neck, a deep growl rumbling in his chest. “Good girl. Then take what you asked for.”

I half expect him to slam into me, but instead, he grabs my hips and pushes inside one slow inch at a time.

“Oh god,” I breathe when the first set of piercings enter me, a wave of heat and pleasure radiating out from where he’s penetrating me and leaving me shuddering. “I can feel them.”

“That’s it, dirty girl. All for you. Count them for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pulls out, and I whine. Then he spanks me hard, and I shudder, my arousal turning into a raging wildfire within me.

“I said count,” he growls before slowly pushing back in.

“One,” I hiss as soon as I feel the extra stimulation from the first two metal balls on his Jacob’s ladder again. “Yes, sir. One.”

“Good girl. Do you remember how many there are?”

I’ve seen his cock. Touched it. Played with them with my tongue. But my mind is so fuzzy with want right now that it takes me a minute to actually remember.

“Eight?”

He gives me another slow thrust, rewarding me for answering him properly. “That’s right. Keep going.”

“Two,” I moan when I feel the next set. Then, on a gasp, “Three.”

I already know his cock is large, both thick and long, but feeling it inside me, knowing we’re not even halfway there yet, is something else. I’ve never felt so full.

I also never realized Beckett would be the kind of man to torture me like this, entering me in a long, slow glide as I finish counting them off that leaves me trembling and panting by the time he finally bottoms out.

“Eight,” I repeat once we get there, my thighs shaking and my pussy so wet that the sound of him entering me is almost obscene.

“Good girl,” Beckett rasps, his grip on my hips tightening. “Now hold on. This is where I fuck my new favorite cocksleeve.”

The objectification just does it for me, and I’m too turned on, too lost in the fuzzy delights of subspace, to worry about why or judge myself for it. But Beckett is done going slow. He pulls back until just the thick head of his cock is inside me, then slams back in so hard that I would have flown forward on the bed if he didn’t have a rock-solid grip on me.

I cry out, pleasure spiking through me as he gives me exactly what I need, driving in and out of me with no mercy once he gets started; fucking me so hard that all I can do is grip the bedspread and hold on, his piercings sending spikes of pleasure through me with every thrust.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I chant, gasping and shuddering as he turns me into a mindless vessel for his pleasure. “More.”

“You fucking love this. You really are a slut for my pierced cock.”

“Yes.”

“You know I got them for the same reason you got yours.” His big, rough fingers bite into my hips as he leans down over my back, the change in angle driving his piercings against my G-spot and making me cry out all over again. “These piercings? They’re foryourpleasure, baby. So say thank you. Tell me how much you appreciate it.”

“Thank you,” I gasp out. “Thank you, sir. Fuck, please don’t stop. Please don’t ever stop.”

“Good girl,” he grunts, fucking me even harder.

My body is like a live wire, my core tight and coiled and so close to release that I can taste it. But every time he calls me his “good girl,” he owns me even more, and no matter how quickly the pleasure builds as he fucks into me, I can’t—won’t—let myself go until he gives me permission.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t beg for it.

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