Page 171 of Yearn
The Performance
Dominic
Teyonah’s confession broke something in me, causing my control to shatter like glass.
I picked her up fast and brought us over to the kitchen table. In one motion, I swept my arm across the table—sending the fruit bowl crashing to the floor, scattering mail, keys, and whatever other bullshit had been sitting there.
Her gasp cut through the air.
I lifted her onto the table, and her legs automatically parted to make room for me between them. The dress rode up her thighs—those perfect, soft thighs that had wrapped around my waist not even an hour ago.
"Dominic—" She tried again, but I swallowed whatever protest she'd been forming.
My mouth crashed against hers, brutal, claiming, and absolutely unapologetic.
She tasted so damn good.
I'd been craving her taste since she'd walked out of my apartment with that bastard.
Moaning, her hands fisted in my hair, pulling me closer even as her mind probably screamed at her to stop.
But her body knew better.
Her body arched into me, hips rolling forward to seek friction against the hardness straining my jeans.
I bit her bottom lip—hard enough to make her gasp, soft enough not to break skin.
"This pussy belongs to me now," I growled against her mouth. "Say it."
"God—"
"Say. It."
Her head fell back as I dragged my mouth down her throat, teeth scraping against her pulse point.
"Yours," she breathed. "This pussy is yours."
“Perfect.”
Minutes later, her dress was bunched at her waist and her panties tossed to the side.
Teyonah was spread out on the kitchen table like a forbidden feast, and I was starving for her pussy.
The wood groaned under her curves, under the shove of my positioning myself between her thighs.
But I didn’t care if it gave out.
I wanted this fucking table to break.
To never recover from her moans, her surrender, and my erotic destruction.
I wanted to scar and crack the grain with my cock slamming into her.
Yearned to stain the wood with my cum and mark it forever.
Then later, she would never look at that table the same again. It would not be the place where her young kids dropped their homework or ate their bowls of cereal. It would not be the place where her husband Scott slurped his coffee, lust-scrolling on his phone, and ignored her.
From now on, she would see this object as my operating table where she was my only patient.
