He doesn't push in. He just holds the pressure there, one fingertip against the muscle, and waits. My body is trying to pull him in. My hole is fluttering and clenching against his finger, desperate and involuntary. The wet sounds it's making are the most humiliating thing I've ever heard in my life.
"Listen to you," he murmurs. "Listen to what your body's telling me."
"Stop talking about it." It comes out strangled. Half-angry. The first real sentence I've managed since he put his hands on me and I use it to be a dick because that's all I've got left. Being mean is the last wall standing.
He laughs. Low, surprised, almost fond. And then he pushes two fingers inside me and the wall comes down.
I grab the edge of the couch and hold on. He's thick-fingered and I'm so wet that they slide in easy, no resistance, just this obscene slick sound as he sinks to the second knuckle. My mouth falls open. He curls his fingers and finds the spot that makes my thighs slam shut around his wrist and he presses into it. I hear myself moan, loud and raw and nothing like me, and he does it again.
"There it is." His free hand pushes my thigh back open. "Let me hear you. That sound you just made. Again."
I shake my head. I don't want to moan for him. I don't want to perform. He scissors his fingers and twists and I moan again anyway, louder, my hips rolling down against his hand, chasing it. I'm fucking myself on his fingers and I can't stop and he's watching me do it.
He pulls his fingers out. I gasp at the emptiness. Before I can reach for him he grabs my shirt and pushes it up my chest, bunching it under my armpits. I'm almost completely naked now, laid out under the colored light with my cock hard against my stomach and slick smeared across my thighs and his eyes are moving over me slow and thorough. Taking inventory. My chest, my nipples tight and peaked, the trail of hair below my navel, my cock twitching under his gaze. I've never been looked at like this. Like I'm something to consume.
He puts his fingers back in. Three this time. The stretch pulls a groan out of me that I feel in my teeth and he starts workingme open with patient, deliberate strokes, spreading his fingers on every push, and his other hand is flat on my stomach holding me down because my hips won't stop moving.
"You've been fighting this your whole life," he says. His voice is low and wrecked, not composed anymore, and the crack in it sends a bolt straight to my cock. "How tired are you?"
So tired. So fucking tired. I'm so tired of fighting my own body that I could cry and actually I think I am going to cry. That thought is so horrifying that I clench my jaw and dig my nails into the leather and hold on.
"That's what I thought." He twists his fingers and presses deep and my vision swims. "So stop."
He eases his fingers out slowly, dragging them against every nerve on the way, and I whine at the loss. Pathetic and desperate and I don't care anymore. I'm empty and I need to not be empty and my hips are lifting off the couch chasing something that isn't there.
He doesn't give it to me. I hear him shifting, hear the clink of his belt, the rustle of fabric, and then nothing. He's looking at me. His eyes move over my body, the mess of me, my cock hard and leaking against my stomach, my hole clenching visibly on nothing. I'm on display for him and I can't even bring myself to close my legs because closing my legs would mean less access and every instinct I have won't allow that right now.
"Please." I hear myself say it and I don't even flinch. The pride is gone. It left somewhere between his second finger and his third. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His hand wraps around my thigh, pushes it wider. I feel the head of his cock press against me, thick and hot and slick with my own wetness, and my whole body goes taut. He holds there. Right at the edge. Pressure but no push. He's big, I can tell that much just from the head, and my hole is fluttering against him trying to pull him in and he won't let it.
"Breathe."
I try. It comes out shaky and wrong.
He pushes in.
The first inch is so much bigger than his fingers that my brain stalls. I'm stretched around him and he's barely inside me and already I feel too full. Already I'm gripping the couch and panting through my mouth because the burn of it is sharp and real and nothing,nothinglike doing this alone with a toy in my bed while I pretend I don't need it. This is a body inside mine. This is an alpha's cock splitting me open and his pulse is right there, thrumming against my walls, the heat of him radiating through me. I'm clenching down so hard that he grunts and his hand flies to my hip to hold me still.
"Easy." Strained now. His thumb is digging into my hip bone hard enough to bruise. "Let me in."
He pushes deeper. Slow. Inch by inch and I feel every single one. My mouth is open and I'm making sounds I'll be ashamed of later, wet gasping moans that get higher as he goes deeper. He just keeps feeding me his cock in a steady relentless slide until his hips are flush with mine. I feel his balls against my ass. He's all the way inside me and I'm so full I can't breathe.
He stops. Holds there. I'm shaking under him. My cock is leaking steadily onto my stomach and I've never felt anything like this. Full in a way that answers the emptiness I've been carrying all night, all year, except the answer is so much bigger than the question. He's inside me and he'severywhere, the thick stretch of him pressing against walls that have never been touched by another person, and I'm gripping him like I'm afraid he'll leave.
"There you go." He's breathing hard. I can hear it through his mask, ragged and rough, and knowing I'm doing that to him, knowing his composure is cracking too, does somethingdangerous to my chest. "You feel so fucking good. Do you know that? You're perfect."
He pulls back and pushes in and I cry out. He does it again. Again. Setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and deliberate, each stroke dragging the full length of him against my insides. I'm making a sound on every thrust now, punched-out moans I couldn't stop if I wanted to. My legs come up and wrap around his waist and the angle changes and he goes deeper and I scream, actually scream, and his hand comes down over my mouth.
"Shh." He's still moving. Hasn't slowed down. Fucking me steady while his palm covers my mouth and I'm moaning into his hand, drooling against his fingers, and his eyes behind the mask are dark and focused and locked on my face. "I know. I know. You're doing so well. You sound so good when you stop fighting."
My eyes are burning. The praise and the fullness and the relentless slow pace of him inside me are doing something I can't stop. Something is building behind my ribs that isn't an orgasm. It's bigger than that and scarier and I don't know what happens when it breaks.
He speeds up. His hips snap harder and I feel the base of his cock starting to thicken and swell and oh god. The knot. I knew it would happen, I studied it, I read about it, and none of that matters because the reality is his cock getting bigger inside me where I'm already stretched to the limit and it's too much, it hurts, it burns. My hands fly to his chest to push him away.
He catches my wrists. Pins them above my head with one hand and keeps fucking me.
"You can take it." His voice is rough and low and absolutely certain. "You were built to take it. This is what you were made for and you're going to be so good."