Page 39 of Owned In Misty Mountain

Then his mouth is on me.

He starts with my collarbone, trailing kisses across my chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while he palms my other breast—gently at first, then rougher when I moan.

I arch into him, thighs falling open, heart pounding.

His mouth moves lower. Across my belly. My hips.

He looks up at me before he buries his face between my legs.

And fuck.

His tongue is hot and unrelenting. He licks me like he needs it, groaning into my pussy when I grip the sheets and whimper his name.

He doesn’t stop until I’m coming. Hard. Back arched. Body shaking.

—-

Mike climbs up, kissing me.

Then he slides two thick fingers inside me, stretching, groaning, when I clamp around him.

“You’re so fucking tight, baby. So wet for me.”

“Mike—please—”

He lines up at my entrance and nudges in. Just the tip.

My breath catches.

“Still good?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Better than good.”

And then he pushes in—slow, thick, deep.

My mouth drops open. My nails dig into his shoulders.

He fills me completely. Stretches me wide. Makes me feel owned.

He pulls out halfway, then sinks in again.

“Fuck,” he groans. “This pussy was made for me.”

I moan his name and wrap my legs around him, anchoring him to me.

He thrusts again. And again. Deep, steady strokes that make my toes curl and my heart break open.

“I need to feel you,” he rasps. “Need to make you mine all over again.”

“You already have.”

He fucks me like that for what feels like forever—grinding against my clit with every pass, kissing my neck, whispering filthy things in my ear.

Telling me how good I feel.

How he’ll never stop wanting me.

How he’s never letting me go again.

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