Page 318 of Immune

It’s fucking crazy. It’s wild. And it’s so goddamn intoxicating, but not because he’s gentle. It’s because he’s strong enough to be rough but has the beautiful discipline not to steal something I’m not willing to hand over. Not yet.

My nails bite into his shoulders, leaving little marks in his flesh that only make the heat in my lower stomach build and my walls tighten around him with every gyration of my hips.

He looks up at me. There’s sweat beaded at his temples and his pupils have almost taken over the entirety of his blue irises. His scent is everywhere now, cedar and leather wrapped around my body like a protective hug, rich and steady and so Fletcher it makes my chest ache.

“I want you over me,” I say suddenly, the words falling off my tongue before I can reconsider them.

His whole body locks tight enough that I know it hurts. “Dakota.”

“I said what I want.”

His eyes search mine. “The bench is narrow.”

“Then don’t let me fall,” I whisper.

A beat. That’s all that passes before he stands suddenly, still inside me, still hard, and still hot under my hands. I gasp loudly, arms flying around his neck as he lifts me like I weigh nothing more than a feather. He turns us, lays me back on the workbench, and braces one hand beside my head and one at my hip. My legs have a mind of their own as they lock around his waist.

The wood is hard under my back, cold and perfect and different and so fucking real that I’d cry if his body wasn’t making mine feel so good. Fletcher looks down at me, big and broad and breathing hard, like a shield over me. Not a cage.

“Door?” he asks.

It takes my lust-addled brain a second to understand what he’s saying.

My door.

My way out.

I touch his chest. “If I push, you stop.”

“Immediately.”

“If I say off, you move.”

“Yes.”

“And if I tell you harder?” I ask breathlessly, my walls clamping around him as if my body wants the answer too.

His eyes darken impossibly before he roughly answers, “Then I give you harder.”

My body clenches around him again and his breath stutters.

“Harder,” I say.

And Fletcher fucking gives it to me.

His first thrust drives the air out of my lungs, and that’s fine. I don’t need air anyway. The second makes my back slide against the rough bench, the scrapes of splinters surely marking me in a way that will show tomorrow. The third makes me cry out so loud that his hand moves to my mouth, then stops in mid-air. Asking without words.

I grab his wrist and press his palm over my mouth myself and his eyes flare.

There.

Mine.

Chosen.

He covers my mouth while he fucks me hard and fast, not to silence me, but because I put him there. Because his other hand is locked on my hip so tight that I won’t be surprised if he leaves bruises, holding me steady as he drives into me with controlled, brutal strokes that make the whole bench rattle loudly.

I moan into his palm just as his knot starts to swell. I feel it at the base of him, pressing thicker every time he thrusts deep, rubbing against my sensitive body in a way that sends me chasing a release I can already feel teasing my lower spine. My body stretches around the bulge of him, heat coiling tight and low.