His hand grew impatient, forcing her motions rougher, faster. Laurel replied only in breaths—the reedy rush of air through her nostrils, lips pursed tight.
“This what you been needing?” he hissed.
“Please. I want to go.”
“Did you know I’d be this fuckin’ big, sweetheart? Is this how you imagined it?”
“Please. Please.”
“Get your clothes off.”
She froze. His hand released hers but she didn’t move, lost in the role.
“Strip. Now.”
“I—”
“Strip.”
Again, she tried to escape. Tried to slip from under the prison of his legs and arms, but she got nowhere. A rough, broad palm covered her throat. He’d never choke her—he didn’t fuck around with that shit, as he put it—but she knew to pretend he was. She went limp beneath him, eyes wide with terror.
“Strip. Don’t make me say it again.”
He released her neck and she reached down, wriggled her bottoms away as Flynn began tugging at her shirt. He peeled it over her arms and head, ignored her bra. He pulled his own shirt off next, and spoke to her as the cotton fell to the floor. “I’m gonna stand up, and you’re not gonna move a muscle. You understand?”
She nodded, unblinking. She watched that body with awe as he ditched his jeans and shorts, standing before her in the low light, cock long and thick and ready, gleaming at the crown.
“Good,” he said, cold eyes approving of her body or her obedience. “You let me and I’ll make this good for you. Fight me and you’ve only got yourself to blame.”
She held her tongue.
He clasped himself at the root. “This what you pictured, all those nights you came to watch me? You go home after and fuck yourself, hopin’ I was even half this big?”
“Please.”
He got back onto the bed, forcing her legs wide. “That’s good. I like you better cooperative.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“No, I don’t have to do jack-shit, apart from exactly whatever the fuck I want. This is my house. What I want, I get. You fuckin’ knew that when you stepped through the door, didn’t you?” His fist was stroking, hips edging their centers closer, closer. Finally, contact—the bump of his smooth head against her clit. She bucked, letting the pleasure masquerade as revulsion.
He traced her lips, no friction. “Fuck, yeah. I knew you wanted this, you lying little bitch.”
She flinched at the word, a chill snaking through her. “D-don’t. Please, don’t.”
“You feel that?” He began to push, his cock a relentless intrusion, spreading her open.
Her eyes shut and her nails bit into his shoulders.
“Yeah.” He pushed deeper, deeper, in harsh thrusts until their hips met. “Don’t tell me you don’t want this. I feel how fuckin’ wet you are.”
“I don’t. Please, don’t do this.”
He gave her his length, slow and mean. “I know you never had a cock half this big, bitch, have you? Tell me.”
“Stop, pl—”
“TELL ME,” he bellowed, as loud as he dared without risking a neighbor pounding on the wall or calling the cops.
“Never,” she stammered. “I’ve never had anyone…” She trailed off.
“Had anyone what?”
“Big as you.” Her voice was a trembling little mouse-squeak of a thing.
“Yeah, that’s right.” He owned her in rough strokes, making every inch a punishment. “Take that cock. Just like you been wanting.”
She shut her eyes, turned her face away.
“Watch me fuck. Watch me.”
She opened her eyes to slits.
“Yeah, look at me.” He made his motions long and filthy, hypnotizing. “Look at me, bitch.”
All at once, Laurel craved her name like water in the desert. She often hit this wall when they indulged his kink, the work of arousal and impatience, not discomfort. She didn’t want to be some stranger, some anonymous “sweetheart,” some “bitch”. She wanted her own name in that gruff accent, wanted it to slip free as control eluded him, same as she wanted to see helplessness glazing those eyes.
She could end the charade now, murmur “Flynn” in a telltale voice and turn this from fantasy to plain old fucking in a breath. But no. It was magic—ugly, dark, scary magic—the way this game affected him. She may be playing a powerless woman, but what she could give this man… She could turn him inside-out with a few whispered pleas. He might be on top, but she held his pleasure in her hands, as truly as she could feel his flesh under her fingernails.
His body punished hers, voice lost to grunts and moans. Her breaths had no choice but to sync with his as each thrust huffed the air from her lungs. She was dying to touch herself, praying for a shift in the angle that might rub him against her, give her relief, when—
“Turn over.” He didn’t give her a chance to obey. The second his weight lifted, he had her by the shoulder and arm, forcing her onto her hands and knees.
Touch me. For the love of God, touch me.
“Fuck, yeah.” He held her hips and drove deep, savored for the barest moment before the brutality resumed. “You get exactly what you were after, bitch?”
“Please.” Barely a whisper now.