I’m panting by now. My cheeks feel flushed; hell, my whole body feels flushed. It feels as though some primal, animal part of me is taking over as I begin to rock against him, angling myself so that our hips are in alignment, pushing and rubbing and grinding. Coupled with the fact that he continues to tease my underwear, pulling it taut as I move, I begin to feel slightly dizzy. Out of breath. Delirious. I don’t need to exaggerate the cry that comes out of me when he slips his fingers beneath the fine material of my panties and he strokes the slick heat of my pussy. I’m too far gone to be embarrassed by how wet I am. How wet he’s made me. I just accept it and grind harder into his hand.
Zeth props himself up on one elbow and leans back, taking me in, assessing me from head to toe as I set my body free, letting it do whatever it wants to do. I lean forward and place my hands on my chest, tracing my fingertips across the dark spill of tattoos across his pecs and his shoulders. The bruised purple of the scar where he was shot just below his collarbone nearly two months ago now. The graceful, packed lines of his solid muscles. I’m learning every single last line of him, committing him to memory and enjoying it immensely. I’m drunk on him. The way he feels underneath me; the dark, penetrating need in his eyes; his hands wandering over my hips, my breasts, my pussy, down my thighs. And I’m not just beer drunk on him. I’m fucking tequila drunk. Sideways. Gone. Blind with how badly I need him. Want him.
“You’re fucking amazing,” he rasps. I don’t know if it’s just my malfunctioning ears, mildly deafened by the roaring of my own blood and our combined gasps for oxygen, but he sounds drunk, too.
He slides a finger inside me and it’s just too much. I can’t take it anymore. I need more than just his fingers. I want all of him, buried balls deep inside me, pounding into me until all I see is stars. I reach down for him and inhale, a whole new fire burning inside me when I take hold of his swollen cock. He’s huge, rigid and smooth like warmed marble. The sensation of sliding my hand up and down him is the most intoxicating thing ever.
“Fuck, Sloane.” His body locks up, his muscles as tense as a tautly drawn bowstring. “Fuck!” He can’t wait any longer, either. He snatches hold of me, falling forward so I’m on my back again and he’s on top of me once more. He doesn’t waste any more time. He’s inside me, then, guiding himself into me for what feels like forever. The stretched, swollen feeling of having him inside me is mind altering, like a drug. He can sense how urgently I need him—he must, because he immediately draws himself out and begins to fuck me with the force of a freight train.
I feel like I’m being impaled, he’s so hard. “Oh, shit! Zeth!”
“You okay?” he growls.
I nod, digging my fingers into his back. The sharp bite of pain encourages him, and he powers on, slamming into me over and over. I hold onto his shoulders, clinging onto him for dear life, and he…he ducks his head and kisses my fingers. It feels like everything slows. He…he kissed my fingers. Holy shit. The surprise of his subconscious action doesn’t distract me from my building orgasm. It adds to it. My body is a trembling wreck as he continues to drive himself into me, each one of my synapses firing independently to create a crescendo of sensation across my skin.
“How hard do you want me to make you come, Sloane?” Zeth pants.
“Hard. Really hard. Please. Please.” I half think this might be his payback now; if he pulls out and leaves me like his, it would be very unfair. But it turns out that’s not what he’s got in mind. Instead he slides his hand up my body and doesn’t stop until he reaches my neck. Once he’s there, he curls his fingers around my throat and squeezes. Hard enough to block off the oxygen.
“Zeth!”
“Ride it out, angry girl. You’re gonna like it, I promise.”
I want to claw at his huge hand, try and get it off me, but the look in his eyes makes me think twice about it. I can’t help but feel like this is some sort of a test. I don’t hurt girls, and I will never hurt you. He’s seeing if I trust him. He’s seeing if I’ll let him do this to me without freaking out. Medically, I know I have about eight seconds of consciousness if he’s pressing down on my carotid artery all the way. If he continues to press down longer than that, there’s always the chance of brain damage and death. But…
He’s not pressing down all the way. Feeling that massive hand close around my neck was frightening enough to make me panic, but now I can feel what he’s doing. And it’s not going to kill me. It’s not even going to even make me pass out.