Page 18 of Owned In Misty Mountain

Thick. Heavy. Veined.

The kind of dick that makes you question your life choices and then beg for more.

He crawls over me, nudging my thighs apart with his knee.

“You sure?” he asks, voice tight.

“Yes.”

“Say it again.”

“I want you.”

He exhales hard—like he’s been holding that breath since the day we met.

“I’m gonna be your first. And your last. No one else touches this perfect pussy, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mike.”

He’s kisses me again—soft and reverent—then grabs a condom from the drawer and rolls it on. I watch, transfixed.

“I’ll go slow.”

And he does.

He presses in, inch by inch, thick burning and deep.

I clutch his shoulders, gasping.

Not only because it hurts.

But because it’s him.

Inside me.

Filling me.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out. “So tight. So perfect.”

He holds still, forehead pressed to mine, letting me adjust.

Then he starts to move.

Slow, grinding thrusts that have me gasping his name in seconds.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Taking it so fucking good.”

The stretch. The pressure. The fullness.

I’ve never felt anything like it. It hurts so good.

My body lights up from the inside out.

And when he reaches between us and circles my clit with his thumb—

I come again.

Harder.

---