Page 48 of Mountain Daddy

The control.

The way he uses my body like he owns it.

But God, I do.

I want him deeper. Rougher. Until I forget I ever ran.

His fingers bite into my hips like he's anchoring me to this moment.

To him.

And maybe he is.

Because with every thrust, I forget the bakery, the lies, the years.

All I feel is him. Hard. Hot. Brutal.

One hand slides up my spine, tangles in my hair, pulls my head back. The slight pain mingles with pleasure until I can't tell them apart.

“You feel that?” he growls. “Feel how perfectly you take me? Like you were made for this.”

His other hand cracks across my ass, making me cry out. The sting spreads across my skin like fire.

“Again,” I gasp.

He obliges. Again and again until my skin burns and I'm sobbing with pleasure.

“My perfect little whore,” he says, voice thick with satisfaction. “I knew you'd like that.”

He's right. God help me, he's right. I love the way he takes control. Love surrendering to him completely.

His pace becomes erratic. I can feel him getting close, his control finally starting to slip.

“Come with me,” he demands. “Right fucking now.”

It coils deep—hot and tight—somewhere low in my belly.

A pulse.

A spark.

Then an inferno.

Every thrust shoves me closer. I grip the edge of the table like it might save me.

It won’t.

He thrusts again—hard. Brutal. Perfect.

His cock hits that spot inside me like he’s carving his name there.

And I shatter.

The second orgasm hits harder than the first, deeper, more devastating. I scream his name, not caring if a client out might hear.

He follows me over, hips slamming against mine as he empties himself inside me. His groan echoes off the pantry walls.

We collapse together, breathing hard. Sweaty. Wrecked.

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