Page 156 of Seven Lost Summers
The words make my nipples tighten and my pussy flood. He doesn’t break his pace. Every pass is deliberate, unhurried, his mouth owning every inch of me while the pressure builds into something sharp and unbearable. My hips jerk, chasing harder contact, but he’s already holding me down. One arm hooked around my thigh, keeping me open for him, the other pressing hard into my stomach, pinning me to the bed like he owns my body.
The control makes it hotter. Dirtier. I can’t grind against him or speed him up. I can’t do anything but take what he’s giving me.
Then it comes. The knot inside me snaps. My back bows off the bed, a choked cry ripping out of me as the orgasm tears through me so hard it nearly blanks my vision. My pussy spasms, clenching again and again around nothing, each pulse wetter than the last while he keeps his mouth locked on me. He doesn’t just lick—he drinks me in, swallowing every bit of it like I’m something he’s been starving for.
I’m shaking uncontrollably, my toes curling, my hands gripping his hair hard enough to hurt, but he still doesn’t let go. He works me through every wave, every aftershock, until my body starts to jolt from overstimulation, my thighs trying to clamp shut. He forces them open, holding me there until he’s satisfied. He finally gives me one last filthy, open-mouthed suck on my clit before lifting his head.
When he crawls up my body, his mouth crashes to mine, and I taste myself thick on his tongue.
“Tell me what you need,” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine, his breath warm and thick against my lips.
“You,” I breathe, voice cracking. “Inside me.”
Something shifts in his eyes.
He doesn’t only hear it—he feels it.
His jaw flexes once before he nods.
He pushes up onto his knees, the mattress dipping under his weight. He shoves his jeans down his thighs, briefs going with them, his cock springing free, hard, heavy, the thick length flushed and glistening at the tip.
Fuck.
It’s perfect, big enough to make me ache with the stretch in my head before he’s even inside me. Veins run along the shaft, his hand wrapping around them as he gives one slow, lazy stroke from base to tip, smearing pre-come over the head while never breaking eye contact. This isn’t for show—he’s making it clear exactly what I’m about to get.
He leans forward, kissing the inside of my knee, his mouth soft but full of promise. After that, he reaches for the drawer.
“Condom,” he murmurs.
The foil tears between his teeth. He rolls it down his cock with steady hands, and my eyes follow every movement, watching the latex stretch over that thick length until he’s fully sheathed.
He settles between my legs, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, the other wrapped around his cock. He drags it through my slick, the ridge catching on my clit in a slow grind before sliding lower again. My hips twitch, chasing him without thinking.
“Greedy,” he mutters, smirking like it turns him on.
He bends down, pressing a kiss to my stomach, his lips hot against my skin, before straightening and locking eyes with me. He stays there, the head of his cock resting right at my entrance making me ache.
Then he pushes in.
The stretch is obscene. My pussy grips him instantly, the first thick inch making me gasp, my hands curling into the sheets. He keeps going, until my body is stuffed full of him, the head nudging so deep it steals the breath from my lungs.
“Fuck,” he groans, his eyes dropping to where I’m stretched tight around him. “Look at that pussy, taking every fucking inch of me.”
The stretch tears the breath from my lungs, my walls clamping down as if they’re desperate to drag him deeper. Heat races up my spine while his eyes stay fixed on me, catching every flicker—my parted lips, the flutter of my lashes when he pushes further. Inch by inch, he buries himself inside me until he’s balls deep.
His jaw flexes, a groan rumbling up from deep in his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough. “You feel fucking perfect. So tight I’m scared to fucking move.”
When he moves, it’s slow enough to make me ache and clench for more.
Long, deep thrusts drag over every sensitive ridge inside me, forcing my thighs to lock tighter around his hips. Each push is deliberate, measured, making sure I register every vein, every inch, every hard withdrawal and slow slide back in.
His hands won’t stay still. One roams over my waist, the other traces down my hip, then skates along the inside of my thigh until his fingertips are brushing dangerously close to where I’m stretched around him. It’s claiming.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice all command. “Don’t drift, Quinn. I want you here for every fucking second.”
I try to hold his gaze, but the way he moves makes my eyes flutter, my breath stutter. He thrusts deeper, finding that spot that makes my spine bow and my fists hold tight onto the sheets.
