Coach's Daughter

“You need this big dick to have an orgasm now, don’t you?” He swats my ass with the flat of his hand. “Don’t you, angel?”

“Yes,” I pant, letting him molest my neck, my mouth. “Yes.”

He throws me down in the middle of my bed, his eyes boring into me as he unzips his jeans, shoving down the waistband of his briefs and pinning me with his full weight to the bed, ramming his shaft as deep as it’ll go. He slaps a hand over my mouth at the last second—and thank God, because it sounds like he’s murdering me. Maybe he is. With pleasure instead of pain. The first two times he made love to me were child’s play compared to this animal mating, this rabid fucking. He’s actually hurting me between the legs he’s entering me so roughly, with such possession, but the good outweighs the twinges of pain by a thousand miles. It’s so intense and glorious and long overdue that I rip my nails down his back, digging my heels into his thrusting buttocks, screaming, screaming into our kisses.

My climax is right there. Careening down on me.

And so is his lust-crazed peak.

That large appendage is already jerking inside of me, his sweating upper lip beginning to curl almost maliciously, even while his eyes are bright on me, brimming with obsession. And then he leans down and speaks right against my mouth, uttering words that, until now, I’m unaware have the power to break me.

“You can’t have my come this time, Greta.”

I suck in a great gulp of air, denial firing like a cannon in my breast. “What?” I try to wrap my thighs around his hips, to keep him there, to give him no choice but to spend inside of me, but he snarls and holds my knees open, disallowing it. “Stop it, Eric. Why?”

He gives me a savage pump of his hard flesh into the soft wetness of mine. “You can cut me off, torture me by looking so fucking beautiful when I can’t touch, make me want to fucking die without you. I deserve it for making you cry, angel. But if you think I’m going to be your stud service without your heart as part of the deal, that’s not happening.” He slides a hand down my belly, petting my clit with his middle finger. “If you want Daddy’s come, you have to come home and get it.”

Oh God. Oh God.

The way he’s stroking that bud is so perfect, all filth and friction, his shaft slapping in and out of me, tapping some magical region deep, deep in my core. Throw in the positively ferocious way he’s looking down at me, like I’m a bunny rabbit and he’s a wolf, gives me no choice but to be mowed down by the bullet train of bliss. My whimper turns into a scream of his name, my sex clenching around him, the deepest recesses of my tummy straining with the force of the pleasure. I see nothing, my back arching off the bed like I’m tied to the ceiling with a rope—and Eric keeps up his attack, leaning down to suckle my nipples, heightening my climax to unimaginable bounds, growling as he takes each bud into his mouth, his shoulder muscles flexed so tight, surely they’re going to snap.

No, I won’t let him.

My body will relieve him.

And my orgasm must have wiped my memory clean, because until he pulls out and ejaculates in heavy white ropes on my stomach, groaning wildly at the ceiling, his hand moving in a blur on that trunk of flesh, I forget all about his vow to keep his climax from me. To pull out.

I don’t expect his actions to frustrate me so thoroughly, but they do. I’ve been robbed. I wanted all of him. I missed him finding satisfaction inside of me and I hate it, I hate it that any part of him is being kept away. It’s not fair.

I’m keeping a part of me away from him, too, though. Aren’t I?

Does giving him my body without my heart hurt as much as this?

What if it hurts more?

I sit up in bed, alarmed. Am I really worrying about how he feels after he tried to pull a fast one on me? Jeopardizing my freedom?

Our eyes lock from across the rumpled sheets, mine conflicted, Eric’s rapt and intense. Oh lord, if I sit this close to him much longer, I’m going to forgive him, aren’t I? I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt, make excuses for his behavior, give him a second chance. And I’ve witnessed far too many women regret giving second chances to their significant others.

Eric is just like them. Isn’t he?

I start to get out of the bed, intending to lock myself in the bathroom so I don’t forgive him, but Eric catches me around the waist and throws me down before I can gain my feet, climbing on top of me, flattening my body between him and the mattress. “I’m sorry for playing dirty, angel, but after a week without you, I’m losing my fucking mind. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat.” He leans down and exhales roughly into my neck, making my eyelashes flutter. “I’m in love with you. So punish me as long as you want, Greta. I’m not going anywhere.”