Page 71 of No One But Me
Her breath caught when I pulled out my cock, thick and heavy and aching for her. Her eyes widened, but there was something underneath it—something dark. Something hungry.
I stroked myself slowly, watching her watch me.
"Look what you fucking do to me," I said, my voice rough.
Her gaze flicked up to mine, then back down, her throat working as she swallowed.
I stepped closer, close enough that the head of my cock brushed against her thigh.
She flinched.
But she didn’t pull away.
"I want to fuck you until you can’t walk," I said, my voice low. "Until you can’t think without remembering how it feels to have me inside you. I want to bend you over this table and take you so hard you scream. I want to feel you come on my cock, over and over, until you’re begging me to stop. Until you’re begging me for more. I want to fill you up with my seed, you taste me. Get you pregnant, over and over again."
Her breath came faster, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.
I stroked myself harder, my grip tight, my thumb swiping over the head.
"Fuck, Belle," I groaned. "Look at you. Look at what you do to me."
She didn’t say a word.
Just watched, her lips parted, her eyes dark.
I came with a rough groan, hot and thick over her thighs, marking her.
Mine.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just lay there, spread out on the table, my come drying on her skin.
I leaned down, bracing my hands on either side of her, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Right where I’d marked her.
"Welcome home," I murmured.
The napkin was cool against my skin, the fabric too fine for this. I wiped my cock clean with methodical strokes, watching her the whole time. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, her fingers still twisted in the tablecloth like she was afraid to let go. Afraid of what she might do if she did.
I tossed the napkin aside and zipped up, the sound too loud in the quiet room. My cock still throbbed despite its release, unsatisfied, but this wasn’t about me. Not yet.
"Eat," I said. "Then come to bed."
She didn’t move.
I didn’t repeat myself. Just turned and walked away, leaving her there—spread out, trembling, mine—while the candles burned low and the food went cold.
The stairs creaked under my weight. I didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. I could feel her behind me, her rage and her shame and her fucking need pressing against my skin like a second pulse.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind me.
I stripped off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and climbed into bed. The sheets were cool, the room quiet, the house holding its breath.
Waiting.
Just like she was.
I turned off the light.
Didn’t bother with the lock.
