“W-what?”
“Are you wearing the plug?”
No.
Shit.
I was so excited about the phone call with Layla, I came down without putting in the stupid toy.
“What will you do if I say no?” I murmur.
“If I spank you, you’ll like that so I’ll go a step further.” His fingers sink into my folds and I arch my back against him.
“A step further?” I moan.
His lips find my earlobe and he whispers, “There will be no orgasm.”
“Jonathan!” I protest.
“Only good girls get orgasms.”
“I won’t do it again.” I cradle his face with my fingers and brush my lips against his jaw, knowing how much he likes it when I kiss him. “Please?”
“Try harder.”
I plant kisses all over his cheek, his lips, his chiselled jaw, and even his nose and his eyelids. It’s the first time I’ve been so forthcoming about kissing him, but Jonathan doesn’t stop me. If anything, he loosens his hold a little to give me room to worship him.
To take my fill of him like I never have before. As I continue my ministrations, he fingers me slowly until I’m writhing in his hands, begging for more.
“Jonathan…”
“What?”
“More…”
“More what?” He twists his fingers inside me and I arch my back against him.
“T-that…that…please…”
He pulls out his fingers and I groan against his face, but I don’t have to wait for long as he unbuckles his belt and slides his huge, throbbing dick inside me. We moan at the same time as he fills me whole. His fingers slide my wetness to my back hole using them instead of the plug as he thrusts slow and measured. His metal gaze never leaves mine as he fucks both my pussy and my arse.
But those aren’t the only things he’s owning. He’s claiming me body, heart, and soul, and it’s completely out of my control. I can’t stop it, even if I wanted to.
Jonathan might be feared by the world, but as I stare into his sombre eyes, I find safety, belonging — feelings I never thought I would find again. And because this is out of my control, it scares the shit out of me. At the same time, I don’t want to run away from it.
“J-Jonathan…” I moan, gripping his neck like it’s a lifeline.
“What, wild one?”
“Harder.”
He complies, his hand surrounding my throat as he brings me to the edge. He doesn’t stop, though. Not when I scream his name.
Not when I writhe against his body.
Not when I beg — no idea if it’s for more or for him to stop.
He takes me in countless positions as if he can’t get enough of me. As if we’ll lose the connection the moment he’s out of me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case.