“Fuck,” he stutters. “Right fucking there, up to the end of your tight little pussy.”
He pistons in and out once, and our groans match each other’s, their weight lingering long in the air after the sounds die out.
“You’re so perfect for me, darling.”
I clench hard around him, the muscles in my legs trembling and cramping. A dark, nearly painful sounding grunt ruptures from his lungs, and he grabs roughly onto my hips, holding me there until my pussy finally releases him, and I feel his soul break for me.
He bucks against me madly, the bed creaking under the brunt force, and he’s close. So close to emptying inside of me—but I don’t want it in me.
Today, I want Grant on me, soaking into my skin and burying into my pulse. I want to rub it into my tits and watch his eyes dilate and darken like a midnight sky as I moan about how good he feels. Simply put, I want to drive Grant as crazy as I feel him everywhere.
A dark red hue kisses the hollows of his carved face as a deep crease forms between his brows. I feel the pounding of his heart and the tight squeezing of his balls.
“Grant, on me,” I order the words, and his eyes fly open. “Paint it on me, I want to be covered in you.”
He slows, and there’s a flash of bafflement on his face. “The reason?” His broad frame tenses and roped muscles flow across his body. “I’m not in the habit of doing that.”
“Because it will make me feel powerful.” My fists clench with the confession. This odd admittance that should seem like a sign of submission but is quite the opposite causes my voice to waver. The backs of my eyes burn with desire as I continue. “It will make me feel all that you are, and I want to feel what you hold.”
“I won’t refuse that.” I can see how much the request turns him on. White streaks flicker in his gaze right before burning away to where the color is nearly black. Pulling out of me, he spreads his legs, encasing me with his body as he towers over me.
I squirm at the sight of his throbbing erection; red, desperate, and wide. My heart beats so hard it could be battering my rib cage, and I lick my lips in forlorn hunger.
Roughly, nearly violently, he rubs his dick with his large hand, teeth gritted, shoulders shuddering. “Open your mouth,” he growls.
My jaw drops, and I gasp when he unravels, covering me just as I asked, starting with my lips, and quickly streaming down to my breasts, waist, and thighs. The hot white liquid hits me, and I’m helpless to stop the throaty moan ripping from me at the feel of him.
Me asking Grant to do this, and him allowing it, screams power, control and order. Fuck, I love this, and with the sweet and salty flavor hitting my tongue, I wish there was enough to drown in.
He keens, closing his eyes and shouting my name, his tall stature slumping as he expels the last of himself onto me. At last, he opens his eyes, and when he does, they soften, glowing in the sun as he watches my fingers swirl through his cum.
“Yes,” he breathes. “God, you look so beautiful covered like that.”
“I feel beautiful too.” His eyes droop, but I can’t allow him to turn away. “Watch me,” I whisper.
“Fuuck.”He seems drawn of strength. His knuckles power down onto the mattress as he slumps forward. Deep breaths pull at his ribs the longer he watches me, and soon his mouth parts.
I do everything I envisioned and hoped for, all while remaining under his gaze. Moaning at the taste of him splashed across my lips and chin as I lick up every drop, massaging him into the pores of my skin, on my nipples, and down my abs, focusing on the scar across my midsection. The mark on my flesh doesn’t vanish, of course.
That’s a ludicrous idea.
But the shame, the embarrassment, and theory that’s told me I’m less beautiful and more flawed because of this scar, it melts under Grant’s release. I’m beautiful, strong, and protected, covered in nothing but all of him.
And that new foundation is poured and set as Grant heaves out a heavy-laden sigh, dropping forward to deposit soft, blazing kisses to the scar, cum and all.
“My fucking perfect enigma,” he whispers, his lips and torso now a wet, slippery mess. “How wonderfully you meld into my ill-lighted ways and own what’s mine.”
“Yes,” I breathe, feeling more complete than ever before. “It’s everything to me.”
Our battered breaths push and pull in the space between us, and it becomes our melody for countless moments. With each passing second, I feel Grant’s words fire to life under my skin, finding and threading into an unbreakable interior.
I am whole—perfectly whole. Not broken.
Healed.
Healed, whole, and Grant’s.
Always Grant’s.