Page 44 of Salt Kiss
The words sink into me like heat from a fire, and even with pleasure spiking through me, I know how dangerous it is.
How dangerous those words are for someone like me, someone who’s only one breath away from falling in love.
“I didn’t know to dream you,” I admit in a whisper.
He stills behind me, and there’s a pause. I wonder if he’s going to speak, laugh, scoff, but instead, he lowers his mouth to my shoulder and catches the trapezius muscle in his teeth. He bites down, and the pain steals my breath away.
He lingers for a moment, teeth undoubtedly marking me, like he’s trying to put something he can’t say into the bite instead.
And then his mouth comes near my ear. “Tristan.”
“Sir?”
“This part won’t be easy either.”
He grabs the back of my neck, and without warning I’m hauled off the desk and pushed onto the floor. I don’t have time to adjust or get my bearings; I’m pressed down, my cheek against the carpet, my left knee shoved up to expose my entrance. My erection is trapped underneath me, and though the carpet is plush, no carpet is soft enough for bare flesh to rub against repeatedly. But I rub anyway, squirming, desperate for friction. My heart is wild in my chest, and I think I might ejaculate right now. Solely from being shoved down and shoved open. Solely from the shadow of him over me, from the sight of his left hand planted by my face, large and strong.
Something big, hot, and slippery presses against me, and I shudder, closing my eyes and breathing into the floor. It’s so big. So much bigger than my fingers or his, so much...more. And when he breaches the tight muscle that guards against intrusion, I make a low, labored noise. It feels like he’s splitting me in half, cleaving me right in two.
He hisses above me, an animal sound, and my dick surges painfully just to hear it. Hear what my body is doing to him. I want to hear it again; I want to hear every noise possible.
I remember reading that I should open for this part, that I should bear down against him, and I take a deep breath and push against the invasion. With an abrupt slide that has us both grunting, he sinks all the way home.
For a moment, that’s all there is. The discomfort, the stretch, the fullness, the heat. My cock like an aching bar against the carpet, desperate to rut and come, my pulse pounding in my throat.
His strong hand by my face, the fingertips digging into the carpet.
“That’s good,” he groans, giving an experimental thrust. “I knew it would be. I knew it would be so—fuck—”
He moves again, this time lowering himself so that he’s all the way on top of me, his chest and stomach to my back, his legs tangled with mine. One arm slides under my stomach, hand spread possessively wide, and then his forearm braces above my head.
His head comes down and I feel his lips on the place where my jaw meets my ear.
I want to move, to turn to kiss him, but I can’t. I’m pinned with his weight, his hips, his arms around me, and the feeling of it is like the feeling of the expensive rug on my needy cock: exquisite torture.
I test it a little, still trying to move, and only succeed in driving his organ deeper into my body.
Soft lips curve against my cheek. “Trying to get away, Tristan?”
No. No, that isn’t it at all. “Making sure I can’t,” I whisper in admission, and his fingers tighten on my stomach.
“I knew it,” he says, an echo of his earlier words, and I should hate that—I should hate that this is what I want, that it’s so obvious. That someone else can see that I don’t want to be on my own two feet, being looked in the eye and kissed softly. That I don’t want romantic or respectful or tender.
That I want to be pressed facedown into the carpet while my boss pumps into me from behind instead.
I am shivering, moaning, trying to fuck my cock against the same carpet that’s also rubbing me raw. It feels so goddamnrightthat I think my bones are going to crack under the rightness of it.
I was always meant to be here.
I was always meant to be here.
His heavy limbs and hard torso and chest keep me still for the taking; he fucks me like he hasn’t gotten to fuck anyone in years. Which I know isn’t true—I can still remember the slick sound of him using the gloved submissive’s cunt—but it feels true, it feels so true. In the ragged tear of his breath, in the way the hand on my stomach keeps flexing and grabbing and spreading. In the way he keeps mouthing my shoulder, my neck, the top of my spine.
In the almost desperate driving of his hips, the strain of his stomach and thighs and calves to get himself deeper, to pound harder.
And each and every piston of his hips has me seeing stars; the blunt head of him and his wide shaft rubbing against the sensitive gland deep in my body. Each thrust rocks my own hips forward, forcing me to fuck the carpet, and the knot inside my groin is so tight that I can’t breathe, and his shuddering, grunting satisfaction is also mine, and the proof that I’m giving him pleasure is just as potent as a hand on my cock—more—and then I’m a wild thing underneath him, because it’s too much, I’m feeling too much—
“Oh, so pretty,” he croons as I writhe, sobbing, the orgasm clawing its way from somewhere I didn’t know orgasms could come from. I’m spurting hot and thick all over his grandfather’s carpet, and the contractions are clenching in my stomach and thighs, and I think deep in my core too, because his crooning breaks off into a rough, staccato grunt.
