Chapter 4: The Taste of Submission
The kitchen table was hard and unyielding against Teresa’s back. The spilled coffee seeped into the fabric of his shirt, warm and then cool, but she didn’t care. The only point of reference in the universe was the burning pressure of Patrick Jane’s cock pressing against her entrance.
He didn’t slide in. He shoved.
A single, brutal thrust buried him to the root, stretching her, filling her so completely her vision sparked at the edges. A ragged cry was torn from her throat, swallowed by his mouth as he crashed his lips back onto hers. This wasn’t love-making. It was a branding. A physical confirmation of the words they had just spoken.
He set a punishing pace from the first stroke, each drive of his hips slamming her body against the unvarnished wood. The table legs screeched in protest on the tile floor with every snap of his pelvis. He fucked her with a focused, desperate fury, his breathing harsh grunts in her ear.
“Mine,” he growled, the word a hot punch against her neck. He bit down on the juncture of her shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to bruise, to mark.
“Yours,” she gasped, her legs locking around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper, harder. “God, yes, fucking yours.”
The angle was exquisite, each deep plunge rubbing his shaft directly over that sweet, swollen spot inside her. The pleasure was a tight coil, winding rapidly towards a snap. She could feel the orgasm building, a tidal wave gathering force in her belly.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice breaking. “Patrick, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he commanded, his hand sliding between their sweat-slick bodies, his thumb finding her clit and pressing down with just the right rough, circling pressure.
It detonated her. Her climax ripped through her with a violence that felt like coming apart at the seams. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound that echoed off the kitchen cabinets. Her cunt clenched around him in frantic, rhythmic pulses, milking his length.
The sensation of her tight, fluttering heat pulling at him was his undoing. With a final, deep drive and a shattered groan that was half her name, half a prayer, he came. He spilled into her, pulse after hot pulse, his body rigid and shaking above her.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his forearms on either side of her head. They were both panting, slick with sweat and other fluids, the smell of sex and coffee thick in the air. The table was a ruin. They were a ruin.
He nuzzled her neck, his lips soft against the new bruise. “We made a mess.”
She laughed, a breathless, giddy sound. “Yeah.”
He pulled out of her slowly, both of them wincing at the sensitivity. He righted his pants and then helped her sit up, his shirt hanging open, ruined. She looked down at herself, at the sticky mess between her legs, at the coffee stain blooming on the fabric.
“Shower,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Good idea.”
They walked naked through her quiet house, a trail of discarded clothing marking their path from the kitchen to the bathroom. The bathroom felt like a different world, cool and silent. Teresa reached in and turned the faucet, and soon steam began to fog the sleek glass of the enclosure.
She stepped in first, the hot water a shock and then a blessing on her sore muscles. He followed, sliding the door shut behind them, enclosing them in a warm, roaring haze.
For a minute, they just stood under the spray, letting the water sluice over them, washing away the sweat and the spend and the evidence of their kitchen-table frenzy. He soaped a washcloth and began to clean her with a surprising tenderness, starting with her shoulders, moving down her back, over the curve of her ass.
She turned to face him, taking the cloth from his hands. She returned the favor, washing his chest, the defined planes of his stomach. Her hand drifted lower, circling his cock, which was already beginning to stir again under her touch.
He watched her, his expression unreadable through the steam. The frantic need from the kitchen had abated, replaced by a heavy, contemplative silence. The water plastered his hair to his forehead, making him look younger and more vulnerable.
She rinsed the soap from him, her hand lingering. Then she sank to her knees on the textured shower floor.
The sight of her, on her knees before him, water cascading over her hair and shoulders, her green eyes looking up at him through wet lashes, hit him like a physical blow. His breath caught.
“Teresa,” he started, a thread of protest in his voice.
“Shhh,” she said, her hands sliding up his thighs, fingers pressing into the firm muscle. “Let me.”
Her gaze dropped to his cock, now fully hard, standing thick and proud against his stomach. A bead of clear fluid welled at the tip, mingling with the shower spray. She leaned forward, her breath ghosting over the heated skin.
“Let me taste you,” she murmured, her voice a low promise under the drumming water. “I want to know what you taste like when you come for me.”
A ragged groan tore from his throat. His hands came up, not to guide her, but to brace himself against the wet tile wall.
She didn’t tease. She opened her mouth and took the head of his cock inside, her tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge, collecting the salty-sweet pre-come. The sound he made was pure animal relief.
She slid her lips down his length, taking him deeper, her other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently. Her mouth was hot and wet, a silken, sucking pressure that made his knees buckle. She established a slow, deep rhythm, one hand pumping the base of his shaft in time with her bobbing head.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his head falling back against the tile with a dull thud. “Your mouth… oh fuck, your mouth.”
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight up his spine. She picked up the pace, her technique less practiced than frantic, fueled by a hungry curiosity. She wanted to consume him. She wanted to memorize the weight of him on her tongue, the veined texture, the way his hips began a tiny, involuntary stutter.
One of his hands left the wall and tangled in her wet hair, not forcing, just holding. “Look at me,” he pleaded, his voice strained.
She opened her eyes, looking up the length of his body to meet his gaze. His face was a mask of agonized pleasure, his jaw clenched, his blue eyes dark and utterly lost in her. The visual, combined with the feel of her mouth, was too much.
“I’m gonna come in your mouth,” he warned, his fingers tightening in her hair. “I’m gonna—Teresa, I can’t—”
She answered by taking him all the way to the back of her throat, relaxing her jaw, swallowing around him. It was an explicit, filthy invitation.
It shattered his control. With a sharp cry, his hips jerked forward, fucking up into the wet heat of her mouth as he came. She tasted the bitter, metallic burst as he pulsed on her tongue. She swallowed diligently, milking him with her lips and hand until he was shuddering and oversensitive, gently pushing her head away.
She released him with a soft pop, resting her forehead against his thigh as she caught her breath. The water rained down on them both.
Slowly, bonelessly, he slid down the wall to kneel facing her on the wet floor. He framed her face with his hands, his thumbs stroking her swollen lips. He looked stunned, wrecked.