The Other Man(8)

Foreplay was not the order of the day.

This was about f*cking.  It was that simple.  His cock inside of my cunt, the faster the better.

He tore his mouth away from my skin and reached for a condom.  He ripped the foil on the packet with one hand and his teeth, keeping my wrists captive all the while.  He even rolled it on one-handed, which was rather impressive considering the size of him.

Practice made perfect, I supposed.  And I tried to linger on that as little as possible.

He moved down my body, shoving my legs wide apart to accommodate his hips, and lined us up, breast to groin.

I craned my neck forward to watch as his tip found my entrance, and he nudged in that first delicious inch.

It’s been way too f*cking long, I thought to myself.

And that was my last coherent thought for a very long time.

He shoved in, slowly at first, shifting his hips to work himself against my soft flesh.  I heard the noises that left my throat as though they were coming out of somebody else as my soft flesh welcomed him inch by slow inch.

It took forever for him to push inside of me, but I wouldn’t have rushed that part if I could, watching as each delicious centimeter of his shaft disappeared into my sex.

I clenched around him, my cunt sucking him in so earnestly and intensely that he cursed and praised me in equal parts every second that he progressed.

It was a shock as he finally, at last, about f*cking time, shoved fully into me, buried to the root.

The air punched hard out of my lungs at the brutal impact as he hit home.

I’d never been so full.  That was a fact.

I took in this new foreign fullness with great heaving breaths that brought my sensitive chest up to rub against his slick hard one, then drop down and away again with each rough inhale, exhale.

“What in the holy f*ck,” he muttered succinctly.

I wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement, but regardless, I had nothing to add.  That summed it up for me, as well.

And then, then, oh my God, then, he started to move, dragging out of me with big, jagged pulls, it taking a few of those pulls to have only the tip of him inside of me again.

He paused briefly there, at just the point where I felt so helpless that I lost it.

Just lost it.  Sobbing, pleading, begging him to move, to come back inside of me, to fill me up entirely.

And he was no sadist, thank God.  He obliged right away, ramming back in with one long heave, then yanking out again, faster now, smoother with every movement as my body learned to accommodate his size, accepting the length and girth of him like it’d been made for just this purpose.

There was something so simple and profound about that first mating.  He occupied an empty place inside of me, literally and figuratively, a lonely space that I hadn’t known needed filling.

It was beautiful and riveting.  I didn’t want it to end, but had to fight not to finish too quickly.

He drove into me, again and again, his thrusts rough to the point of brutal.

I’d never been into rough sex.

Well, I’d never tried it, but I hadn’t thought I was into it.

I’d thought wrong.

How could I be so wrong about myself?  How could I not know about a need like that until it was given to me in its entirety?

And that need, that need, it swallowed me whole.

I needed this like I needed air.  Needed someone to fill me so acutely, so completely, mercilessly invading me, over and over, pounding me into the mattress, taking absolute, indisputable ownership of my body until I couldn’t say where he began and I ended.

Needed it so much, I couldn’t stop begging for it.

Loudly.

Repeatedly.

And he gave it to me, everything I begged for and more, rutting into me with mindless abandon, pounding in and out, in and out, faster and faster, harder, and still, impossibly, harder, until screaming, I burst.

My orgasm didn’t just surprise me.  It assaulted me.  Tore through me and broke me into a million twitching pieces.

One big hand clawing at my hips, he pumped into me four, five more times, then planted himself deep, to the root and came.

I watched as the chill at last left his eyes.  So many things rushed in to replace that consuming coldness of his.

Wonderful things.

Addictive things that let me know somewhere deep down he was as affected as I was.

Hunger.  Admiration.  Desperation.  Lust.  Wonder.  Need.  Abandon.  Madness.

It was beautiful to watch, the way he changed in those brief moments of bliss.

Beautiful and dangerous.

I’d do a lot to watch him change like that, to get even the briefest glimpse of that other side of him.  The need was powerful to the point of self-destructive, especially considering the fact that I barely knew him, and what I did know only seemed to point toward the fact that he was a wild thing that was not even close to being tamed.

CHAPTER FIVE

I was still reeling, still completely caught up in what had happened mere seconds ago, but not him.  He was up, standing, peeling off the used condom, tossing it into the closest wastebasket, then pacing the floor at the foot of my bed, eyes intense on my limp form.

No, wait, not pacing . . .

Stalking.

Prowling.

Like a lion, his narrowed eyes on me.

I was his prey, and he was ready to pounce.