Page 65 of The Order of Disorder
He looks up at me, his blue eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them.
“Roll over,” he commands.
I lift myself up, feeling breathless, and get on all fours in front of him. His palm presses between my shoulder blades, guiding me forward. I brace on my elbows, knees spread, ass tipped up for him—and I don’t need to see his face to know what I’ve just done to him.
“Oh fuck,” he murmurs. “Stay just like that.”
The blunt head of his cock nudges between my folds. He drags the tip through my slick heat, groaning low in his throat.
“You’re so wet,” he says roughly. “So ready for me.”
One hand anchors on my hip, the other wraps in my hair and pulls gently, just enough to make me gasp. Then he thrusts in deep and slow, all the way in. I cry out, back arching, and his fingers tighten in my hair.
“Jesus, Max,” he gasps.
He starts to move, slow at first, even and deep. Then harder, faster, each thrust matching my movements as I rock back to meet him, his thick, hard length filling me and rubbing me in away that’s half agony, half ecstasy. His hips slap against me with each thrust, him grunting, me moaning, every sound obscene. His grip shifts from my hair to the front of my throat, and he pulls me back just enough to apply pressure. To claim.
“You take me so fucking well,” he pants, driving into me. “So fucking good.”
I cry out, pushing back into him, wanting more. The building heat is relentless, my clit pulsing with every shift of his hips, as each thrust sends another jolt through my core.
“Come again for me, baby,” he rasps, breath catching. “Let me feel you coming for me.”
As if all it took was his command, the orgasm rips through me, detonating at my core and rippling outward. I squeeze around him, trembling under the force of it, and hear him moan, long and low. He leans forward, his stomach against my back, his hand still holding my throat as I pulse and shudder around him, and when I finally still, he groans as he pulls out. I’m still catching my breath as I roll onto my back and he positions himself between my legs again, his hands sliding up my thighs.
“You’re not done,” he says, gripping my hips and dragging me down the mattress.
I gasp when he lifts one of my legs and plants my foot flat against his chest, pushing forward so that my knee bends back toward my chest. He drags his cock over my clit as he slides it into position, one hand braced beside my ribs, the other gripping my ankle.
He angles down and pushes back inside, deep.
“Oh my god—”
His palm slides up my shin and wraps around my knee, pulling it up and out, and he flattens his other palm on the bed, and pumps into me again, fucking me at a new angle that hits deep.
“How does that feel?” he asks, voice low. “Good?”
I nod, mouth open in a silent cry.
He moves slow on purpose, hips grinding in that deep, rhythmic stroke that drives me crazy. But it’s the angle that wrecks me, every thrust brushing just right. Then he lifts both my ankles to his shoulders and leans forward, folding me in half. The pressure makes me gasp. His hands catch mine and pin them to the mattress beside my head.
I’m completely at his mercy. His mouth brushes my temple, voice thick with heat. “You feel so fucking good, sweetie.”
He fucks me harder now, deeper. The bed frame slams rhythmically into the wall and the mattress creaks beneath us, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Every sound we make, every slap of skin, is devoured by the hum of the fan and the quiet music still playing from the radio.
When I come again, it arches through me like a jolt of electricity. My whole body tightens beneath him and he groans, voice wrecked.
“God, you feel so good when you come,” he pants. “So fucking good.”
He tilts his head to the ceiling, breath huffing out, thrusts coming faster and harder until he slams into me, burying himself as deeply as he can, and lets out a deep, guttural moan, shuddering inside me, cock pulsing as he comes hard.
And after the last spasm, he lets go of my ankles and drops his palms onto the mattress as I wrap my legs around him. He falls forward on top of me, resting his weight on his forearms, and presses his forehead to mine. For a minute, we just stay that way, catching our breath.
Finally, he pulls out and falls onto his side on the bed. I wriggle up against him and he wraps one arm tight around my waist, pulling my back in against his chest.
His mouth finds the back of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “I’m going to miss you tomorrow.”
My fingers curl around his wrist. I don’t say anything. I just take a big, heavy sigh. The thought of a night without him is daunting, but the prospect of freedom makes it worth it.
