Page 82 of Gilded Shackles
There's a look on his face like he's just tasted something divine.
Next thing I know, I’m off the ground, hanging over his shoulder.
“Liked that, did you?” he squeezes my ass. I jerk, sucking in a breath through a hiss.
He chuckles. Three long strides and he tosses me onto the bed. I land with a soft "oof," hair fanning out around me, limbs splayed like a rag doll's.
He doesn't speak as he strips, watching me the whole time.
I pull at his tie, fingers working buttons. My eyes follow the planes of his chest, the sculpted edges of his muscles.
I still can’t believe I got this fucking lucky.
When he's finally, gloriously naked, he climbs onto the bed. My eyes lower to his cock. Hard. Thick. Jutting proudly from a nest of dark hair.
From the hardened length of it alone, I know there’s never been a moment in my life when I’ve felt morewanted.
"Turn over," he orders, voice like gravel. "On your hands and knees."
The words hit me like a spark, and heat blooming low in my stomach. I shift, doing what he says. The air is cool, almost teasing, sending a full-body shiver through me.
His hand trails down my spine, a whisper of contact. "Perfect," he murmurs.
“Remember,” I throw a look over my shoulder, coy and sweet. “There’s dinner waiting, darling.”
I swear I feel the moment he turns feral when he grabs my hips and pulls me closer. I gasp, clutching at the railing of the bed, knowing I’m already half-gone.
Then I feel him. The blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and every single thought scatters.
All I do isfeel.
He pushes in slowly, inexorably, stretching me wider with each inch until I'm gasping, fingers clutching the rail like it’s a lifeline.
The burn. Exquisite. That perfect edge between too much and not enough. My toes curl, eyes sting. He’s everywhere—under my skin, in my breath.
"Christ, Elle," he groans once he's fully seated. "You feel like heaven."
His hands find my hips, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and then he's moving.
The first thrust knocks the air from my lungs.
The second makes me moan.
By the third, I'm incoherent.
My face presses into the mattress, ass grinds in the air, taking everything he gives me and still wanting more.
He fucks me like a man possessed, like he's trying to mark me from the inside out, until the only sounds that remain are skin slapping skin.
He moves inside me with the kind of focus that makes time collapse. Every thrust is a vow, every sound between us a confession. My body meets his on instinct, learning his rhythm like a song. My breath breaks into soft, needy sounds I can’t swallow.
And then he finds that angle —the one that makes my vision go white —and stays there. Relentless but careful, like he’s trying to rewrite the way my body understands pleasure.
“Elle,” he murmurs, voice rough against my ear. “Look at me.”
I turn my head just enough to meet his eyes. What I see there steals the breath from my lungs. It isn’t lust anymore. It’s something deeper. Fiercer. The kind of thing you only get once someone’s seen every sharp, broken, unlovable piece of you and wants you anyway.
He leans forward, body pressed to mine, lips finding my shoulder, my neck, my jaw — everywhere he can reach. His cock drives deeper, curling in the position, and I scream outhis name, arching my back to feel that little spark of pleasure growing into a tendril.
