Page 248 of Don’t You Cry

He nods desperately, pushing back on my hand, taking me in deeper.

I add a second finger—he gasps and wriggles, but he’s so fucking ready for it, the second length sliding in almost as easily as the first. I scissor them gently, working him open, slick and slow, stretching him with a patience I don’t even feel, because every second of this is a gift.

He’s whining under me now, shameless and loud, rutting his hips into the mattress.

I keep working him, curling my fingers to brush his sweet spot, feeling for that exact angle that will make him lose the last of his self-control. It takes only a few strokes before his entire body bows up, toes curling, arms straining against the cuffs.

He makes a noise that is absolutely not a word, the pacifier muffling it into an almost-sob.

I can’t wait anymore. I want to split him open, fill him, leave him wrecked and glowing. I want to make this perfect for him—so he never, ever hesitates to show me the messy, shameless core of what he wants.

I slick my cock with shaking hands, then line myself up, one fist curled around the base, and tease the blunt head of my cock at his entrance. He tries to push back, greedy, and I grip his hip to hold him steady.

“Easy,” I murmur, bending forward so my chest covers his back, caging him in. “I’ll give you every inch, baby. But I want to see you take it.”

He sobs out a little “please,” so muffled by the pacifier it’s a sweet mewl.

I push in, the resistance giving way beautifully as his body opens for me. The first inch is pure heat, the second even better, and by the third, he’s shaking so hard I have to pause and give him time to breathe around the burn.

But he doesn’t want to wait. He presses back, taking me deeper, until I’m buried up to the hilt, balls snug against his ass, the skirt of the babydoll fluttering with every shallow gasp.

He’s so fucking tight I see stars. I hold myself still, fighting every instinct to rut mindlessly, because I promised him I’d make it perfect, and I will.

“Kammie,” I whisper, running my hand down the length of his spine, “you’re taking me so well. I’m so fucking proud of you, princess.”

He moans, high and trembling, clenching down on me. I start to move, slow at first, pulling out just far enough to feel the drag, then pushing back in, savoring every millimeter. The friction is delicious, nearly overwhelming, and every time I bottom out, he lets out a sharp, broken cry.

I set a rhythm, not too fast—enough to keep him pulsing, never letting him settle. I want him hovering on the edge, helpless to do anything but take what I give. The cuffs force his hands uselessly in front of him, and I grab both his wrists, pinning them to the bed as I fuck into him.

He’s gone, spaced out and so deep in subspace I doubt he could spell his own name. His hair is a mess, the pacifier bobbing with every thrust. He’s so fucking perfect like this, the kind of perfect that makes the back of my eyes sting.

“Kammie,” I groan, and the sound barely makes it out before I bury my teeth in the back of his neck. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make him moan, to drive home how utterly at my mercy he is.

He sags, boneless, sobbing for breath around the pacifier.

I lose myself in the rhythm, the wet heat of him flexing down on me, the way his ass takes me like a goddamn dream.

His noises get wilder, more frantic. He’s humping into the mattress, desperate for friction. I can feel his whole body tense, every muscle lit up. I know what’s coming.

He tips over the edge without warning—a long, drawn-out whimper, then a series of short, gasping cries, each one timed to the slap of my hips. His body locks up, then convulses. He comes untouched while I fuck him through it, the tremors wringing out every last bit of control he has.

And fuck, the way he squeezes down on me, milking me, is enough to push me right to the brink. I lose the last of my restraint, fucking him hard and deep, a punishing rhythm that says you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.

I come with a savage groan, my cock throbbing as I empty inside him, filling him up until it leaks around the base, messier than anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t pull out, just collapse on top of him, burying my face in his hair, breathing him in.

He’s limp under me, noises slurring together into a single, shuddering whine. I stroke his flank, gentling him, running my hand over the skirt of the babydoll, and the trembling length of his thigh.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” I murmur, voice shot to hell. “Such a perfect, perfect boy.”

He mumbles something around the pacifier, then goes utterly still, a boneless, fucked-out puddle.

After a minute, when I can think again, I work the cuffs free and turn him over, tucking his head into my chest. He’s still babbling, but it’s nothing I can make sense of—just soft, shivery nonsense.

I kiss his forehead, his temple, his wet lashes. His body is so small in my arms, fragile and spent, and I hold him until the shaking quiets.

“God, I fucking love you.”