I gasp, and he uses the moment to shove his cock back inside my mouth. I could bite him, if I wanted him to stop. But I don’t want that. It’s hotter to pretend I can’t bite him because he’d only get angry. He’d only make this harder on me. The only safe thing to do is please him, and I suck harder.
A heavy pressure builds below my stomach, something more severe than pleasure. It feels like an earthquake is coming inside me, and I’m afraid of what happens if I break.
I look up at Asher, imploring him, hoping he understands.
He watches me suck him, working his cock in and out of my mouth. One hand reaches behind him to tug the white T-shirt off, revealing muscled abs that clench on every flick of my tongue.
I can’t deny that he likes my breasts, small as they are. He pinches and pinches me until I’m gasping around his cock, rocking my hips, mindless. I’m kneeling on the bathroom floor and I’ve never been so turned on in my life.
He pulls me to stand and drags the camisole over my head, dropping it to the bathroom floor.
My heels are next. My slacks. My lacy red panties.
And then I’m standing there naked in a half-built bathroom, a whole construction crew not twenty feet away from us. I shiver, but I can’t deny the excitement grows deeper.
A hand wraps around my neck.
He pushes me flush against the cold tile wall. Then his other hand works between my legs, two fingers pushing up inside me. A strangled sound escapes me, cut off by his mouth against mine. He eats up my protest, my pleasure. My pain.
When I come something moves inside me, a seismic shift. I hump his hand to wring out the last flickers of pleasure. He pulls his hand away before I’m done, and I moan.
Two fingers pull through my wetness, gathering it. He spreads it over his cock. The proof of my desire glistens on his ruddy flesh. He fucks his slickened fist, grunting in a way that’s more animal than man.
“I’ll make you dirty,” he says, his voice low like this is a solemn promise. “I’ll make you fucking dirty on the bathroom floor. Make you come so hard you don’t know your name, but when we’re done you’re coming home with me. You got that? You’re mine.”
Mine. I should tell him no. I should fight him, but I don’t want to win that battle.
I want to lose.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Triumph lights his eyes, and he lifts me up. Something blunt nudges at my sex. That’s the only warning I get before he thrusts inside me. His hands are firm across my ass, thrusting me forward and back, impaling me on his length. It’s too much. Too fast. The only thing I can do is throw my arms around his shoulders and hold on. I press my face into his neck, breathing in the salt-sweat scent of him.
“Again,” he demands, his muscles straining. He’s in the middle of his own earthquake.
“I’m yours,” I say, made breathless by his thrusts. And then louder.
“Again. Fucking again. Fucking forever.”
“Yours.”
It’s too soon for me to come again. My body is pliant and sated, only here to help Asher come. That’s what I think until he changes the angle. His cock jabs at some place inside me, insistent, almost painful, and then my legs start to shake. “Wait, wait, wait,” I cry, but that only makes him do it faster.
“Come,” he mutters, his face pressed into my neck. “Fucking milk me. I want to feel you come around me, want you to gush on my dick. Want to feel it dripping down my balls. Fucking do it.”
The words are hard and coarse, and that’s what makes me climax. My whole body clenches down, giving him exactly what he wanted, an impossible squeeze, the spill of arousal. His roar bounces off the tile. He grasps me against his body, hard enough to leave ten finger-shaped bruises on my ass.
We pant in the aftermath, me clinging to him, him holding me back.
“Again,” he says, his voice almost slurred.
I turn my face against his, loving the way his bristle scratches my cheek. “Yours.”
His lids are heavy, eyes flashing black. “I’ve been waiting for you, June Li.”
A shiver runs through me. The good daughter wasn’t only obedient. She was also kept guarded. It was a way of keeping myself alone. Until him. He climbed the tower.
He carried me down.
I drop my hand down his broad chest, and there in the ripple of muscle, in the coarse hair, over the flat of his male nipples, I write my own four letters. MINE.
Asher Cook is hard and crude and dirty. I’ve spent my whole life locked away. I’ve been waiting for you, he said, but I think I’ve been waiting for him, too. He’s the only man who’s ever seen through the cable knit sweaters and plaid slacks. The only man with the determination to peel away my layers to the surrender underneath.
