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“I told you, I’m not in any pain.”
He groaned, but it came out more like a sob. “Fuck, I am.”
“Where? This pain?” I smeared my wetness over his cock, making both of us shudder and shiver.
He lost his ability to speak.
My blood turned to light as every molecule hummed for more.
The tease of a release poured yet more fuel on my fire.
I stopped fighting it.
Stopped fighting feelings and needs and knowings.
My hand dropped below and found him in the darkness.
“Ah fuck.” He grunted as I fisted him hard. “Stop—”
“No.” I grasped his length and squeezed.
He exhaled in a rush. “Don’t—ughhh.”
That noise.
That groan and growl and grunt.
It made my very spirit quiver as I stroked him, up and down, sharing my fire, making him burn with me.
Another groan fell from him, slashing at his self-control.
The timbre of his growl; the echoing, earthquaking tone. It vibrated through me, rearranging my pieces and sending me higher than the sun.
I squeezed the base of him, teasing us both as I rode his length, coating him in my desire.
His head tipped back. His lips pulled away as he snarled at the ceiling.
“I’m on fire, Hen.” I stroked his erection with tight little twists.
He snarled. Loudly. “Stop saying that—merde.”
I pressed my thumb into his crown.
He jerked and hissed, his voice nothing but black. “And you’re on fire because you probably have a fever.” He grabbed my shoulders, his thumbs finding sore bruises. “Get off me. I’m not doing this tonight. You don’t want me. You’re high and—”
“No, I do want you. I’ve never wanted anyone more.”
His fingers squeezed, hurting me.
I sucked in a breath, hating that pain threaded with pleasure.
That pain only added to my pleasure.
That pain and pleasure somehow became a delightful, dirty thrill.
Memories of him calling me that nasty little M word clotted my mind.
Masochist.
