Chapter 4: The Lion Takes His Prize
The pressure was an absolute thing. It wasn't just the feel of him, but the certain knowledge of what was coming. Her body, still humming from his mouth, clenched in primal defense.
"Look at me," Jax said again, his voice a low command that brooked no disobedience.
Her eyes, wide and wet, fixed on his. He held her gaze as he pushed forward.
The blunt, slick head pressed, molded, and then began to sink into her. A sharp, burning stretch made her cry out, a thin sound of pure shock. He stopped, buried just past the crown, an impossible fullness where none had been before.
"Fuck," he gritted out, a vein standing out on his forehead. "You're fucking tight. Like a virgin."
He pulled back, almost out, and her body throbbed at the sudden emptiness. Before she could gasp, he pushed again, a little deeper this time, another inch of thick, veined steel claiming her. The burn was less shock now, more a deep, resonating ache of expansion.
"Jesus. How many times has Cam been in this pussy?" he asked, his breath hot on her face. He wasn't waiting for an answer; it was part of the act, a verbal claim staking over a physical one. He pulled out again.
"A... a lot," she whimpered, the admission feeling like another betrayal.
He smirked, a flash of white in the shadowed room. "A lot, huh?" He thrust in again, deeper, and her back arched off the silk. "Doesn't feel like it. Feels like I'm making it mine all over again."
Inch by torturous inch, he worked her open. Each shallow withdrawal was a brief respite, each subsequent penetration a deeper conquest. Her nails scratched helplessly at the sheets. Her legs, hooked over his hips, trembled uncontrollably. The burning slowly, insidiously, began to transmute. The sheer fullness triggered a dormant, desperate pulse inside her. A choked sound escaped her, not quite pain.
"You feel that?" he grunted, sensing the shift. "Your little cunt’s finally waking up. It knows what it needs."
With one final, deliberate roll of his hips, he seated himself fully. Her breath left her in a sobbing gasp. He was buried to the hilt, his body pressed flush against hers, his coarse pubic hair against her sensitive flesh. The sense of invasion was total. She was stuffed, impaled, filled beyond what she thought was possible. A tear tracked from the corner of her eye into her hair.
"Good girl," he breathed, dropping his forehead to hers. He didn’t move, letting her feel every inch, every pulse. "You took it all. Look at you."
Then he moved.
The first real thrust tore a scream from her throat. It was a deep, percussive drive that shifted her whole body up the bed. The initial sharpness flared, then drowned under a shocking wave of intense, diffuse pleasure. He set a punishing rhythm, each stroke a long, smooth withdrawal followed by a hard, deep return. The slap of skin, the wet, sucking noise of her body taking him, filled the room.
"Is it too much?" he taunted, his voice ragged with effort.
"Yes! God, yes, it's—"
"Does it feel good?"
She couldn't answer. Her mind was fracturing. Each impact drove a helpless, keening noise from her lips.
"Tell me," he demanded, gripping her hips, his fingers digging in. He angled himself, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot so deep and electric her vision whited out.
"It feels good!" she screamed, the confession ripped from her. "It feels good, it feels good!"
He grunted in satisfaction, his pace turning brutal. The carved lion on the headboard rattled with each drive. Her breasts bounced, her hair a wild tangle against the black silk. The world dissolved into sensation: the crushing weight of him, the smell of sex and sweat and his cologne, the obscene music of their collision. The guilt was still there, a shrill cicada in the back of her skull, but its song was drowned by the roaring in her blood.
She was close again, a coil wound inhumanly tight. He seemed to know. One hand snaked between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing hard, rough circles.
"Cum," he ordered. "Cum on my cock. Let me feel you."
It was not a request. Her orgasm detonated, a catastrophic release that clamped her around him in vicious, milking spasms. She shattered silently, her mouth open in a soundless cry, her body bowing tight against his.
The sensation of her convulsing around him broke his control. With a raw, guttural shout, he hammered into her twice more and buried himself deep. She felt the hot, pulsing flood inside her, a foreign claim that filled her up even more. He shuddered through his release, his massive body collapsing atop her, crushing her into the mattress.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing merging. He was still inside her, softening, a plug keeping his spend from escaping. Her limbs were liquid, her mind a hazy blank.
Slowly, he lifted his weight onto his elbows. He looked down at her, at the wreckage he’d made of her: the torn dress, the tear-streaked face, the glazed eyes. He brushed a thumb over her bruised lips.
"See?" he said, his voice a satisfied rumble. "Told you you'd love it."
A weak, sob-like laugh hiccupped from her. She was ruined. And she had loved it.
He finally pulled out, and a hot trickle leaked onto her thigh. The evidence. He rolled onto his back beside her, staring at the dark ceiling. The twilight through the window had deepened to full night.