Arranged(40)

My heart was pounding so hard in my ears that I wondered if he could hear it. If he could see it moving in my chest.

“Touch me,” he hissed out between clenched teeth.

I reached for him, and his arousal fell heavily into my hands. I squeezed him. The fingers of one hand barely fit around the thick girth of him. He was so hard, but his skin was like velvet. The contrast of something so hard wrapped in silk was delightful. Thrilling. Intoxicating. I stroked him, feeling all of him with my palms. With hungry enthusiasm I fisted him with both hands, root to tip.

I was just getting started when he tugged my hands away with a curse. “Too much,” he warned me. “I’m too primed right now, and I want to come inside of you.”

“Yes,” I said, voice agonized, thready with need. My arms fell back onto the mattress. I could count the seconds since he’d gotten me off, but it wasn’t enough. I was empty again. Aching and I wanted him inside of me, filling me utterly. I wanted it all, and only that part of him was enough.

He kept himself propped up on one elbow, the tension in his muscles making them stand out starkly in his shoulders.

His other arm was busy guiding the wide crest of his thick length against my entrance.

Both of our eyes were trained on his rigid member as it breached me. He let out a tortured moan as he fed his cock into me with utmost care.

I tried to suppress my own moan as he slid in oh so slowly. His long, hot, velvety shaft stretched me with every bit of progress. My tender muscles clutched at him, my breaths coming short and fast.

He was still looking down between our bodies, his features slack with desire. I knew instinctively that he was too far gone to slow down, let alone stop. Good. Stopping wasn’t an option. I needed more.

I took his thick length all the way to the root. There was no pain this time, just a delightful, overwhelming, racking stretch.

It was almost too much and exactly enough.

“God,” he said, his deep voice hoarse with delicious agony. “I’d convinced myself that I’d imagined you felt like this.”

His heady words, the way he spoke them, were undeniably flattering. And a shock. It was news to me that he’d enjoyed any aspect of our wedding night. I tucked the knowledge away for later consumption.

He started to move, not pulling out but shifting around, feeling me, massaging a sweetly tender spot inside of me that I hadn’t even known was there. But he knew. He navigated his way inside me like it was second nature, like he’d been there a thousand times instead of once.

My nails dragged into the sheets, my legs curling naturally around his hips.

“You ready?” he panted into my skin.

“Yes, keep going,” I huffed back.

“Keep going? I haven’t even gotten started.”

And with that, he started fucking me. It was only my second time, but he didn’t go soft or easy on me.

Exactly and precisely the opposite.

His rigid cock nailed me straight into the mattress.

It was devastation.

It was heaven. It was hell. I was overcome.

Turns out, I loved fucking. Took to it like a natural whore. Oh the wonderful, bitter irony.

Once he started, he didn’t let up at all.

He had me in a tireless tempo. In a perfect, strident battering of body and wills. A giving and a taking of flesh pounding flesh.

There was a brutal, concentrated focus to the way he fucked that got to me. It was art. It was poetry. It was creation. Perverse chaos done in explicit order. It was the wonder of nature and the debasement of humanity.

Oh my body. I said goodbye to it then. It was his. He really did own me now. In law and in fact.

Was it always like this, or was this all him and I? Something that we owned alone. A private piece of paradise just for us.

He grabbed my hips, tilting me into an angle that had the plush head of his shaft rubbing me just right with every drive home.

His hips churned as he rutted in and out, in and out, his thick length pulling out until his blunt crest rimmed me before slamming back in, balls deep every time. And fast. Urgent. Frenzied.

Every single plundering lunge was satisfying and complete.

He called me a whore, but he was the one who fucked like it was his job. His very purpose in life.

I kept my eyes closed the whole time.

I never pictured his face when he was inside of me. I never said his name. I did those small things right.

Still somehow I lived and breathed for his touch. His possession.

He drummed in and wrenched out of me with a desperate, masterful rhythm, his hips oscillating in and out, drawing back and driving in, again and again with increasing tempo.

The pressurized tide inside of me built and built, finally letting loose on an upsurge right as he hit the end of me with a soft, desperate grunt.

I came in a torrent. In a deluge. My anxiety, my fear, my anger, my soul poured out of me. I tried to keep my eyes shut tight like that would keep some of it in.

My sex gripped his thickness in beating, milking pulses, sucking him deep and holding him there.

My eyes opened somewhere in the middle of it in spite of my efforts. Our gaze clashed. It was a raw, aching moment, vulnerable and naked. I wasn’t alone here. He was going through some earth shattering of his own.

I was too shaken by the moment to feel even an ounce of self-satisfaction at the reveal.

He swore harshly, yanking out of me with one sudden, savage wrench.