Page 74 of Offside

He pulled the panties down—not off, halfway, mid-thigh, leaving them there—and I felt the cool air on my skin and his hands on my hips positioning me and I went where he put me without a single objection.

I got my hands and knees under me and felt him behind me—the heat of him, the solid presence of him, exactly how ready he was pressing against me through his jeans—and I got wetter just from that. Just from knowing.

I didn’t look back, but I heard the rip of foil and lost his touch for only a moment before he ran his hand slowly up my spine, from the small of my back to the nape of my neck, and I shivered despite the warmth of the room.

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “what you look like right now.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

He continued. “You’re like a present, wrapped up in lace and silk. Just for me.”

He reached around and cupped my breast, the weight of his hand warm and certain, rolling my nipple between his fingers while his mouth found the back of my neck—lips, then teeth, then the slow drag of his tongue—and I dropped my head and pushed back toward him.

“Please,” I said.

“Please what.”

“Ryan.”

“Say it.”

“Please fuck me like this,” I begged. “Please.”

He rewarded me for that—his fingers sliding between my thighs, finding me slick and swollen, stroking slowly through the heat of me while I pressed into his hand and tried not to lose my mind entirely. The sound I made was not quiet. I stopped trying to be quiet.

“This wet for me already,” he said. Not a question. A fact he was filing away with obvious satisfaction.

“Yes,” I managed.

“Good girl.”

I clenched around his fingers and he felt it and made a low sound against the back of my neck that I felt in my spine.

“You like that,” he said. “When I call you a good girl?”

“You know I do.”

“I know.” The satisfaction in his voice was devastating. “I know exactly what you like…my good girl.”

He teased me with the head of his cock—just enough, just the promise of it, the blunt pressure of him right where I needed it most—and I gripped the sheets and pushed back toward him and he pulled back just enough and I made a sound that was entirely undignified and I did not care even slightly.

“Ryan—”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” I said. “Inside me. Now. Please.”

He pushed inside me in one long stroke.

I cried out into the pillow and felt him everywhere—deep and full and so good it was almost too much—the stretch of him, the warmth, the fullness that made my thighs tremble and my toes curl. He held still for a moment with his hands gripping my hips and his chest against my back and his mouth at my ear, both of us breathing hard, neither of us moving.

“This is mine,” he said against my ear, his voice low and rough as he transformed into the bedroom version of himself, completely unrestrained. “You understand that. Nobody else gets this. You are mine.”

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Say it. I want to hear it again;”

“Yours,” I said. “It’s yours. I’m yours.”