Page 17

I dragged your hips back toward me, kept my fist wrapped in your hair and checked you were still with me.

You were, very fucking enthusiastically.

So I stopped holding back, and the first thrust nearly broke me.

Fuck, sweetheart.

Fuck.

I'd spent months imagining how your pussy would feel around my cock and somehow every single fantasy had still undersold it. You were hot and tight and so fucking good that for a second I just stayed buried inside you, staring down at where our bodies met because my brain needed visual proof that this was actually happening.

Then you pushed your ass back against me.

Greedy little fucking thing.

That snapped whatever thread of control I had left. I tightened my fist in your hair, grabbed your hip with my other hand and thrust harder.

You gasped, so I did it again harder.

The workbench jolted beneath you and you shoved back into the next thrust like you were trying to see which one of us would lose our fucking mind first.

Then you moaned, "God."

I leaned over you, still holding that fistful of your hair.

"Another man's name while I'm fucking you, sweetheart? Seriously?"

You laughed, breathless and filthy.

"My psycho, then."

Jesus fucking Christ.

"That's better."

You turned your head enough to look back at me and added, "My stalker."

Something inside my brain fucking detonated.

I hauled you upright by your hair until your back hit my chest, kissed you hard while I was still buried inside you, then shoved you back over the workbench because hearing you call me yours had apparently destroyed whatever microscopic amount of sanity I still possessed.

You wanted hard enough to feel me tomorrow, fine, I was going to make damn sure you felt me.

I gripped your hip hard enough that I knew my fingers were going to leave marks and started fucking you harder, every thrust driving you against the bench until it was knocking against the wall and something crashed off a shelf beside us.

Neither of us gave a fuck.

You squeezed around my cock and I nearly lost it again. And when I told you to do that again, you did. I swear you knew exactly what you were doing because you squeezed me again while pushing back into my next thrust, and for one horrible second I thought the woman I'd spent months stalking might actually be the one who killed me.

What a fucking way to go.

But I was all in, so I fucked you harder.

Your fingers clamped around the edge of the workbench and your voice got louder with every thrust, until the sweet little sounds I'd spent weeks obsessing over had turned into shameless moans and broken screams.

That was what really fucked with my head, you didn't hide any of it.

Every hard thrust got an answer. Every time I pulled you back onto my cock you let me hear exactly what it did to you, and when I squeezed your hip harder and drove into you again, you fucking moaned for more.