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“Condom,” I say, because someone has to.
He swears under his breath, but goes and grabs it from the bedroom. He comes back holding it up.
“Last one.”
“Then don’t waste it. And hurry.”
“Romantic.”
“We’re past romantic. Get your dick out.”
He laughs and kisses me while he gets his jeans open. I taste myself on his mouth. I get a hand wrapped around him. He’s hot, heavy, fully hard, the head already slick, and when I stroke him root to tip I can feel how long he is, that extra inch that always makes my stomach go tight. He drops his forehead to my shoulder and breathes.
“Quiet,” I remind him.
“You first.”
He rips the wrapper, rolls it on and even the condom looks tight, stretched thin over him. I watch him do it, watch his hand look small on himself, and I am so impatient I reach down and line him up myself.
“Easy,” he warns.
“I know how big you are, Simon. Put it in.”
He swats my hand away, wrapping his own fist around the base before rubbing the head of himself through me first, once, twice, getting the condom wet, nudging my clit until my thighs shake around his hips. Then he notches against me and pushes.
The first inch is always a struggle. Thick enough that my mouth falls open and nothing comes out. He holds there, one hand on my hip, the other braced on the counter beside me, and waits until I nod.
Then more.
God. The stretch burns and makes my toes curl. I can feel myself struggling to take him, and it is still not all of him. I hook my ankles tighter and try to pull. He doesn’t let me.
“Don’t,” he whispers, strained. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’m not made of glass.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Breathe.”
He sinks further. There’s a moment where I think that’s all of him and then there is more, that long thick shape of him filling me until I can feel it in my stomach, until my thighs are shaking and my nails are in his shoulders. When he bottoms out I have to turn my face into his neck to keep quiet.
He doesn’t move, just sits bottomed out inside me and throbbing.
“Okay?” he asks.
“If you don’t move I am going to kill you.”
He moves.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re so perfect. You take me so well sweet girl.”
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me where he wants me, feeding that thick cock into me over and over. I have one hand in his hair and the other braced behind me on cold granite. Every thrust drags that stretch through me until my mouth is open against his throat and I whimper as he nudges my cervix.
“I know it hurts baby, but you’re so good at taking it.” He kisses me, messy, a little desperate, hips rolling in a grind that keeps him so deep I see white.
He adjusts the angle and the next thrust hits that perfect spot and my whole body tries to make noise. I bite his shoulder.
He swears, and does it again. I can hear how wet I am. I can feel how thick he is, how he has to work for every stroke even now, even after his mouth, even after three fingers. My legs are shaking around him. The granite is biting into my ass. I do not care.
“Simon—”
