Page 83 of Iced Out

Oakley’s not small by any means, and how in the hell he’s gonna fit inside me is...well, it just doesn’t seem possible. Just the first few inches the day in the shower felt like I might be split apart, even when I finally relaxed enough for it to feel good.

But it’s the pleasure Iknowhe can give me that has me saying what I do next.

“Fuck me.”

“Quinn—” he starts, but I shake my head and cut him off with a kiss.

It’s urgent and needy and downright desperate, but I don’t care. I don’t fucking care if we’re crossing all kinds of lines we shouldn’t. It’s like he said, fuck the rules. Fuck every damn one of them.

I just wanna know how it feels to be owned by him, even if it’s just once.

“I want you,” I whisper, like a secret in the night. “I want you so much, I can’t stand it.”

Tormented doesn’t even describe the expression etched into his face as he looks down at me, two brown eyes watching and searching for…I don’t know what.

“Are you sure?”

Rather than answering, I haul him in for another tantalizing kiss. I have no words of reassurance for him because…I should be freaking out right about now.

No, not should.

Am.

I actually kind of am flipping my fucking lid, fear and adrenaline and anxiety all mixing together in a potent, reckless concoction I know I should stay far, far away from. But I take it anyway, the desperate need for him inside me stronger than that for oxygen.

“My bag. Side pocket,” I mutter, shoving him away from me to grab the lube.

He’s gone for barely ten seconds before he’s sliding his body between my thighs again, peppering kisses across my skin. Any piece of it he can find. My hips, my stomach. Pecs, throat, lips, taking his time to explore every line and muscle like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do.

All sorts of nerves twist and knot my stomach, the mixture of anticipation and a little fear sending my pulse skyrocketing as he pops the bottle of lube open, applying a generous amount to his fingers. Watching him only heightens the torrid emotions rippling through me, goosebumps breaking out over my skin.

The second a cool, lubricated finger slides up my crease, my senses go into hyperdrive. Every ounce of anxiety is gone, only need and desire left in its wake as he prepares me.

He massages my rim with deft fingers, ones far more skilled than with just holding a stick, dragging out moan after tortured moan while he does. I gasp when the first one breaches me, the long digit sinking inside me. The way he touches me and fucks me with his hand has my heart ricocheting against my ribs so hard, I think they might crack.

When another finger slips past the puckered ring of muscle, my need intensifies with the burn. I welcome it. Crave it, even.

My lips part on a gasp as he continues to stretch me, and when he curls his fingers against my prostate, I see every star in the galaxy.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, my ass bearing down on his hand.

It’s a feeling I can’t describe. Of being so full, I might burst at the seams, but also the desperate need for even more. And God, I want more.

I don’t want to stop until I know what it’s like to be shattered by him. Dismantled piece by piece until I’m just a messy heap on the floor only he can put back together.

His mouth descends over my aching length then, the dual sensation of it and his fingers setting all my senses on high alert. Every nerve ending in my body is hyperaware of where he’s touching me, fucking me, owning me.

I lose myself in him, my head falling back against the pillow as he takes from me as much as he gives. But it’s not long before even that’s not enough, and I’m pushing him off my cock, desperate and ready to come.

And I refuse to let it happen until he’s buried deep inside me.

Like he can read my mind, he adjusts his positioning and slathers his dick with lube. The ache in my balls intensifies at the sight, and only gets worse when he lines himself up against me, the red, angry crown of his cock nudging up against my ass.

And just like that, the nerves and anxiety come barreling back at break-neck speeds. Oakley must read it all over my face too, because his expression softens as he looks from where we’re almost joined back to my face.

“Quinn…we don’t have to.”

“Yes, we do,” I tell him. Because there’s no other option. There’s no other person I want to do this with. Who I want to give this part of me to.

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