Page 143 of Hidden Echoes

I wrap my legs around his hips, locking him in place.

“Don’t think,” I whisper. “Just give in. Be good. Mine.”

And when he starts to move, hips rolling slow and deep, it’s all heat and friction and moans, our bodies locked in that perfect, filthy rhythm—his praise, my control, and that look in his eyes that says he’d give me everything.

Because he already is.

And I watch every slow, deliberate movement of his cock sliding against my pussy—slick, aching—until my control unravels completely.

I push against his chest, and he lets me—eager, obedient—falling back against the pillows with a soft, wrecked sound that makes my core clench around nothing.

“Lie back, angel,” I murmur, crawling over him, straddling his hips. “Let me ride you.”

His hands settle on my thighs like he's grounding himself, fingers trembling.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispers, looking up at me like I’m something between salvation and sin.

I take him in one slow roll of my hips, watching his head fall back, watching his lips part around a gasp as I sink down onto him—tight, warm, dripping.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice already cracking. “Mia… you feel like heaven—”

I place my hands on his chest, grinding down, and smile.

“I’m not heaven, baby. I’m the whole damn storm.”

And I start to move.

Slow at first, just enough to drive him mad. He bucks beneath me, hands twitching as if he wants to grab my hips—but he doesn’t. He knows better.

“You don’t move unless I tell you to,” I whisper, leaning down to bite at his bottom lip, hips rolling in punishing, wet circles that make him groan through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, Mia. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good for you—just don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

His voice breaks as I pick up the pace, riding him harder, wetter, the sound of our bodies slapping together filling the room. His head thrashes side to side, fists gripping the sheets, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“You're mine like this,” I pant. “Look at you. Just look at yourself—such a pretty, desperate mess.”

“I’m yours,” he sobs, barely holding it together. “Please, Mia—please, I can’t—”

“I know, baby. Let it go. I want you to fall apart for me.”

And when I clench around him, pulling him deeper, he shatters—crying out, body arching, cock pulsing as he comes hard inside me, trembling through every second of it.

But I don’t stop.

Not yet.

Because watching him break?

That’s the part I live for.

I keep moving on top of him, even as he trembles, even as he gasps through the overstimulation. His hands flutter against my thighs like he doesn’t know whether to push or pull, like he’s unraveling under me but still trying to hold on.

And then he looks up at me—red-eyed, lips swollen, flushed chest rising and falling beneath mine—and it undoes me.

That look.

The way he needs me.

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