Page 120 of If Only In Our Dreams

For me tosubmitto him.

The second I realized that, it was like a switch flipped in my brain. I stopped fighting. My legs stopped shaking. I sank down from my elbows to my chest, face pressed to the mattress, and my fluttery pink hole went slack beneath his touch.

“That’s it,” Ben cooed approvingly. “That’s just what I wanted, sweetheart. So obedient, aren’t you? Such a good,goodboy.” His fingers pressed in and it burned. Two at once—because he knew I liked it that way.

Slow and steady, Ben pushed deep, deep, deep. Till he could tap against my prostate with every thrust. Till my body was shaking for a new reason, and my hips were fucking back to meet him.

“I’m going to hold still,” Ben warned me, wrist angled so his fingers made stars explode behind my eyelids. “Because I want you to ride me.” Low and gravelly, Ben’s voice grew deeper. “I want to watch your ass bounce as you fuck yourself on my fingers.” And then, less mean than before, sweet all over again, he added, “Is that okay, baby? Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” I hardly recognized my own voice.

When his fingers stopped moving, I did as I was told. Bouncing back and forth, seesawing on his hand, grinding hardinto his knuckles to feel him as deep as he could go. He snuck a third finger in at one point and it burned so much worse than the other two.

And I loved it.

I loved it so fucking much.

“Pull your nipple rings,” Ben’s voice was breathy and hoarse. “Keep fucking yourself.”

A slick sound was coming from his hand—the other one—not the one I was grinding into. And I knew without having to look that he was getting off on watching this. He groaned, this low, animalistic little grunt.

When I reached up and tugged at my piercings, a broken gasp escaped me. It was probably the most pitiful sound I’d ever made.

“Harder,” Ben commanded. I didn’t know if he was talking about my hips or my nipples, so I simply responded with both. Grinding back into him, fucking myself as I pulled and pulled. “Fuck yes,” Ben’s voice went higher for a second, breathier, the slick sound of him stroking himself off picking up the pace. “Fuck.”

He was close.

I could hear it in his voice.

“Still baby, hold still—” Ben urged. For a second, I thought he was going to cum on me or something. But instead he did something infinitely better. He snuck his pinky in beside the other three fingers. And this time, when I sank back, I sobbed. “Fuck,” Ben repeated. “Fuck, you have no idea how good you look.”

It ached so good.

It was slow going, but I took him in to the knuckles again. I didn’t think I’d ever been stretched so wide in my life. It burned and burned—in the best possible way. There was no room fordoubt in my mind. No room for insecurity in my heart. I was too full of Ben to be anything but satisfied.

“Fuck,” Ben repeated as I began to experimentally pull off, then sink down again. Greedy little swivels of my hips that made my dick swing. It wasn’t hard again, but it didn’t need to be. I enjoyed this far too much even without the promise of more wet orgasms.

Faster his hand worked, the bed shifting as Ben began to pound his fist in earnest. It was loud. Louder even than the squelch of his fingers inside me. I wanted him to pull them out. To stick his dick in where I needed it most.

And I knew he wanted it too.

But he wasBen, so our first time had to be perfectly planned to his satisfaction.

A fact that was overwhelmingly endearing, but frustrating all the same.

“I’m going to cum on your hole,” Ben informed me, still humping his fist. “I’m going to smear it into your tattoos.” Oh Jesus fuck. “And then, I’m going to scoop up what’s left, and make you clean up the mess you made me make.”

That was all the warning I got before Ben was painting my stretched hole with his cum. Hot pulses of pleasure splattered my flushed skin. I continued to fuck myself on his fingers, pulled hard enough on my nipples they felt like they might fall off—and sobbed.

It felt like I was cumming, but nothing came out of my dick.

Just this never-ending wave of pleasure that I never wanted to stop.

Ben,because he was Ben,kept all his promises.

But on top of painting my tattoos with his fingers and making me lick his fingers clean, he did something far filthier. He murmured praise against my skin, against my ribs, against myhair. He fluttered dozens of kisses along my body, my protruding ribs, the crows at my hip bones, and the bony tops of my knees.

He kissed my toes, and my shins, and my fingers, one by one.

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