I
I knocked with the dumb excuse of needing sugar, but the second he opened the door, I forgot what the fuck I came for.
Sweaty. Shirtless. Still breathing heavy from training. His fight shorts hung low enough to see the V-cut that screamed "you’ll be on your knees soon.”
“Mrs. Langley,” he said, licking his lips. “What can I do for you?”
I should’ve said sugar. I should’ve run. But I stood there staring at the slick lines of muscle across his chest like I was starving.
“You look like you need something else,” he said, stepping closer. I felt the heat pouring off his body.
“I—I…” I started, but he didn’t let me finish. He grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me—hard. Tongue in my mouth, hand gripping my waist like he was claiming it.
Before I could blink, I was off the floor. One arm under my thighs, the other on my back, and he was carrying me into his kitchen like a toy.
“You think I don’t know you’ve been watching me train?” he growled, tossing me down onto the granite counter like I weighed nothing. “You think I don’t see you drooling through that little window of yours?”
My legs were open. My skirt was up. He was between my thighs, tearing at my panties with one hand while the other grabbed my chin.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I want it,” I whispered. “I want you.”
He smirked. “No. You want to be fucked.”
He yanked me closer by my hips, lined himself up, and shoved in—deep. I screamed. Not from pain, but from the shock of being split open by a cock that thick, that hard, and that full of rage.
He didn’t ease in. He slammed. Brutal. Unrelenting. The sound of skin smacking echoed off the walls.
My leg started shaking after the third thrust. My whole body jolted with every slam of his hips. My back arched. My mouth hung open. I wasn’t moaning anymore—I was crying out.
He wrapped one arm around my lower back, lifted me off the counter, still inside me, and slammed me against the fridge.
“Too much?” he asked, smiling like a devil.
I shook my head, too fucked to form words. He gripped my ass, bounced me on his cock like I was nothing but a ragdoll, and all I could do was take it.
My orgasm hit like a gunshot. My thighs clamped around his waist, shaking uncontrollably. He held me up while I came, grinning, watching me twitch and spasm.
“Still think you’re in charge?” he whispered into my neck.
He dropped me to the floor. I collapsed, limp, panting on all fours.
But he wasn’t done.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair, bent me over the counter again, and shoved back in. Rough. Deeper.
“You wanna be wrecked?” he snarled. “I’ll fucking destroy you.”
He pounded into me like he was trying to fuck the attitude out of every man I’d ever slept with. His hand came down hard across my ass—smack. My knees buckled. I was drooling. Legs trembling, body convulsing, moaning into the marble.
When he came, he slammed in and held. Deep. Pulsing. Twitching. Filling me with every drop.
Then he leaned over my back, breathing heavy.
“Now that,” he said, “was better than sugar.”
I couldn’t walk straight for two days. And the bastard texted me the next morning:
You left your panties on my fridge. Want ‘em back? Bring lube.