My cock is the hardest it's ever been.
Tate's hand wraps around it, and I groan into her neck as I slip a hand between her thighs. Fuck, is it possible to come from this alone? Yes, I think so.
"You're soaked," I say.
"Whose fault is that?"
With a growl, I lift her. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking at the ankles, her back against the wall, and I line myself up, wedging the tip to her entrance. It takes everything I have to not just drive in.
I drag a breath in through my nostrils for four long seconds.
"Look at me, Tate."
When she does, I push inside inch by agonizing inch. Tate gasps—sharp, loud—and I have to stop, have to give her a second because she's so tight it's almost painful.
"Tom—"
"I'll go slow." My voice comes out wrecked. "I promise."
I push deeper, my muscles contracting with the sheer effort of holding back. Tate's nails dig into my shoulders through my wet shirt, and the pain keeps me from losing it completely.
"That guy," I say against her neck. "Touched you."
"He didn't?—"
"Almost touched your arm. Smiled at you." Another inch. She's taking me so well, clenching around me and pulling me deeper into her depths. "You smiled back."
Tate makes a sound between a gasp and a moan. "Being polite."
"Don't." I'm all the way inside now, buried to the hilt. Tate is hot and tight and perfect. "Don't be polite. Don't smile at them."
"Jealous?"
"Yes."
I pull out halfway and drive back in. Tate tilts her head back, her lips open. The sound she makes goes straight to my cock.
"Say it," I say.
"Say what?"
"That you're mine."
"Fuck you."
I pull out almost completely and stop. She whimpers.
"Say it."
"You're insane."
"Say it or I stop."
"You won't stop."
She's right. I won't, but she doesn't need to know that.
I stay still. Barely inside her. Watching her face as frustration bleeds into desperation.