He pins me against the cold wall, one hand tangled in my hair, the other sliding down my spine until his fingers hook into the damp heat between my thighs. My skin is on fire where his lips trace—first my collarbone, then the swell of my breasts, each kiss a slow, deliberate claim. I feel his cock hard against my stomach, a thick pressure that makes my knees tremble. He doesn't rush. He parts my folds with two fingers, circling my clit until I'm dripping wet, my hips bucking into his palm. Then he lifts my leg over his hip, aligns the head of his cock with my entrance, and pushes in—just an inch, just enough to make me gasp. His voice is a growl in my ear: "You're going to come for me, aren't you?" I can only nod, because every nerve is already singing, already begging for more. His thumb presses my clit as he starts to thrust, slow and deep, filling me until I forget how to breathe. This is not sex—this is being taken apart, piece by piece, until I'm nothing but moans and sweat

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