Page 40 of Impulse Control
I pushed myself up on my elbows, reaching for him, but he caught my wrist. His grip was firm but not bruising. “Later,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through me. The single word was a promise and a command all at once. He released me, tore open a foil packet with his teeth, and rolled the condom on with a practiced efficiency that was somehow even sexier than fumbling would have been.
And then he was on me. No more caging, no more teasing. He pinned my wrists above my head with one of his, his other hand guiding his cock to my entrance. He didn’t ask for permission this time. He didn’t need to. He drove into me in one smooth, powerful stroke that stole the air from my lungs all over again.
The feel of him was overwhelming. The sheer, unapologetic stretch of him filling me completely. And then, as he began to move, the drag of that silver barbell against my inner walls was a whole new kind of torment. A delicious, electric friction that had me seeing stars all over again. It was a fierce, furious coupling, exactly as I’d known it would be. He wasn’t making love to me.
He was fucking me. Claiming me. Every thrust was a punctuation mark in a story I was just beginning to understand. My hands, freed from his grip, scrabbled for purchase, digging into the hard muscle of his back, then sliding down to clutch the tight, flexing curve of his ass. I wanted to explore, to memorize every inch of him, but the fever pitch of it all was making me crazy, reducing me to instinct and sensation.
He angled his hips, hitting a spot inside me that made me cry out, a sharp, broken sound. He did it again, and again, a relentless, punishing rhythm that robbed me of thought and breath. The world shrank to this. The slap of skin on skin, his harsh breathing in my ear, the exquisite pressure building deepinside me, and the undeniable, intoxicating truth of the silver bar that was taking me apart piece by piece. My nails raked down his spine and he hissed, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he powered forward, his teeth sinking into the curve of my shoulder.
The sharp sting of pain was the final push I needed. I shattered again, my orgasm a violent, convulsive thing that ripped through me with the force of a tidal wave. He followed me over the edge with a guttural groan, his body stiffening as he poured himself into me, his forehead pressed against mine, both of us gasping for air in the sudden, ringing silence of the room.
Tonight…
I shuddered, the aftershocks still rippling through me as I lay boneless on the bed. My eyes fluttered open, and I watched him rise. There was only a single lamp on in the room, casting a warm, honeyed glow that made everything feel intimate and secret. His face was slick with my release, and he didn't wipe it away.
Instead, he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, deliberate motion that was utterly possessive. It wasn't just an act of cleaning; it was a performance, a silent declaration that he was savoring every drop. And just like that, he was seducing me all over again, a slow burn starting deep in my belly.
My gaze drifted over him, taking in the whole picture. His skin was sun-kissed, a warm golden brown that spoke of days outdoors, but it was the subtle shift in tone right around his hips that caught my eye, the faint lines of where a swimsuit might sit.The image of him on a beach, water clinging to that same lean, muscled body, sent a fresh, sharp bolt of lust straight through me.
His dark hair was a mess from my fingers, his chocolate brown eyes were fixed on me, dark and intense. This was a body built for more than sterile gym repetitions; it was a body for moving, for working, for fucking. And his tongue, fuck, his tongue was a masterpiece of artistry.
My eyes dipped lower, past the flat planes of his stomach to his cock. It was a hard, jutting length, slightly curved, the thick mushroom head so flushed with blood it looked almost painful. And there, glinting in the soft light, was the barbell in his frenum, a silent, wicked promise of the pleasure to come. He reached for the foil packet on the nightstand, his movements economical and sure. He began to roll the condom on, and that small, practical act almost made me weep. In the middle of this raw, sweeping passion, he remembered. He took the time. It was a small thing, but it was everything.
He moved over me, bracing his hands on either side of my head. "You want me?" he murmured, his voice a low, rough rasp that vibrated through my chest.
I didn't answer with words. I licked my lips, a slow, deliberate sweep, and spread my thighs wider in invitation. My hand slid down my stomach, and I dragged a finger through my soaking wet folds, gathering the slickness there before holding his gaze.
"You have no idea how much..."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Should I make you tell me how much?"
Another shudder wracked my body, this one pure anticipation. "You could," I agreed, my voice a breathy whisper. "But I'm a big fan of show, don't tell."
His laughter was rich and deep, a masculine rumble that was intoxicating. "How hard do you want it, Flash?" His voice softened on the nickname, and my inner muscles clenched tight. I knew what he was capable of. I knew exactly what I wanted.
"Hard," I whispered, the word a plea. "I want you so hard that I'll feel you for days."
"Oh, after I'm done with you tonight, you will feel me for days." It wasn't a boast; it was a promise, dark and binding.
And then there were no more words.
His mouth fused with mine, a hungry, possessive kiss that swallowed any sound I might have made. In the same moment, he thrust into me. It was rough, swift, and deep, a single, powerful stroke that stole the air from my lungs and filled me completely. He didn't give me time to adjust, to process. He set a punishing, relentless rhythm, each thrust a hard, deep impact that sent shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating through me. The strokes threatened to make me scream all over again, but his mouth was on mine, sucking the breath from my body, claiming every gasp and moan.
He filled me over and over, a relentless, driving force that pushed me higher and higher. This time, there was no teasing, no cruel edging. He was giving me exactly what I asked for, and the pleasure was immediate, overwhelming. The first orgasm crashed into me without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that had me clawing at his back. Before I could even come down from it, he was already pushing me toward a second, his hips grinding, the angle of his thrusts changing to hit that perfect, devastating spot inside me. The second one was deeper, a rolling tide of ecstasy that left me trembling and mindless.
And on the third, as my body convulsed around him, I felt him tense. A low, guttural groan was torn from his throat, and he followed me over, his own release pulsing into me as he buried himself to the hilt. We shattered together, a tangled, sweatingmess of limbs and ragged breaths, collapsing onto the bed in a heap of sated exhaustion.
Two years earlier…
He collapsed against me, his weight a welcome anchor in the sea of sensation I was still drowning in. For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breaths, the frantic thrum of my own heart in my ears, and the distant hum of the dorm refrigerator. The world slowly came back into focus. The slightly scratchy texture of my dorm comforter against my back, the cooling sweat on our skin, the scent of sex and garlic and pizza hanging in the air.
He lifted his head, his dark hair damp and falling over his forehead. His eyes, which had been so fierce and predatory moments before, were now soft. Dazed. He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time, and a slow, lazy smile spread across his lips. It wasn’t the sharp, dangerous grin from before. This one was genuine. A little goofy. It utterly delighted me.
My own lips curved into a smile I couldn’t suppress. My body felt like it had been wrung out and put back together wrong, but in the best possible way. I felt utterly, ridiculously happy. My brain, finally rebooting, decided to offer up the first coherent thought it could muster.
I tilted my head back, looking up at him, and whispered, my voice raspy and wrecked, “So… what happens if I ask for Chinese instead of pizza?”
His smile faltered for a half-second, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then his eyes cleared, and a low, deep chuckle rumbled through his chest, a vibration I felt everywhere we were still connected. The sound was warm and real and sounexpectedly perfect that a laugh bubbled up out of my own chest.
