Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,55

wanted Reagan inside of me.

“Reagan,” I moaned. “Reagan, Reagan—” his name all I could manage. Half a litany of praise and half plea.

He grabbed my hand and stopped my fingers, pulling them from my ass with a quick and audible pop. He didn’t release my wrist.

“Do you want me to be sweet?” he asked, a quiver in his tone as if he were barely holding himself in control.

“Fuck sweet,” I groaned. “I don’t want sweet—I want you. Sir.”

I knew the sir would break him. It was an ace up my sleeve, each time I wielded it resulting in the same hiss and tension. It worked this time. He pulled both of my wrists behind my back so that I was grasping at my elbows. His hand was large enough to hold my arms pinned like that. It put all of the pressure on my chest, my cheek pressed into the cool wood of the desk. My eyes were rolling, my shoulders stretched tight.

Then I felt the blunt tip of his cock at my hole and I mewled, like a kitten begging for attention. Reagan began to push in. He didn’t thrust, but it was a slow and insistent pressure as he gained inch after inch. I burned and stretched and delighted in how he filled me. When he ground against me, buried to the hilt, I cried out, my hard cock demanding to be touched. But I was pinned, helpless to do anything but open for him.

He ground and ground into me, as if he could disappear into me, fill my body entirely with his. The thick hardness of him hit my prostate and I groaned.

“Yes, yes.” I pushed back as much as I was able to from my pinned position. “God, Reagan, I’m so full of you. You’re so fucking big and I need you, I need you, I—” love you almost spilled from my lips, but my brain was too fuzzed over to make coherent words. But my heart lit up like a neon light with it.

“You’re so goddamned sexy,” he growled. “Look at you. You’re hungry for my cock, aren’t you? You want it so bad.”

Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging. “I do. Reagan, I want it so bad. I want you. I want your cock. I need you to fuck me, please—” Spit flew from my lips on a particularly hard thrust, landing on the desk. I could smell lube and sex and his musky scent all over me. My shoulders were screaming from the strain and my cock throbbed with aching need. I’d had a few dalliances with rough sex, but only enough to know that while I craved it, I craved it with this man and this man alone.

Maybe he was reading my thoughts because Reagan pulled out then, almost popping free. His fast absence left me weak-kneed and empty. Then he slammed back in, splitting me with a fierceness that left me begging for more. He began to thrust then, the sounds of our grunts and skin slapping all I could hear. That, and the occasional animal noise I belatedly realized was coming from me.

“Christ, Channing,” Reagan snarled. “You’re so goddamned tight.”

“It feels...so fucking good, Reagan,” I moaned. I was pretty sure I’d drooled on his desk by that point, my body no longer mine. It belonged to him, I belonged to him, and when he told me to come, I did, without anything even touching my dick. His words and the stroke of his cock deep within me were enough to send me over the edge.

He thrust into me, fully inside, and I felt him twitch as he came, my name on his lips. I pulled ragged breaths in, unable to lift myself just yet. I closed my eyes, trying to memorize the press of his weight on my back, the way my slick skin stuck to the fabric of his shirt.

He gently pulled out of me, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my lower back. I heard a rustle and then he was cleaning me up, soft cotton against my well-used backside. Reagan fell back into his chair, rolled it close enough to grab my hips, and pulled me onto his lap. I went willingly, snuggling into his warm, strong chest. Reagan’s thick, well-muscled arms wrapped around me and one hand stroked my hair.

I buried my face into him, breathing deeply. Letting his warmth and his scent bring me back down. It was one thing to have a fantasy come true.