Ethan’s hunger lit me up like fire. As he thrust deep one
final time before leaving for work, my body pulsed around him, aching for more
even as the orgasm rippled through me. He didn’t move right away, just stayed
there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving, his breath ghosting over my
collarbone.
“Marry me,” he whispered, his voice raw as he trailed kisses
along my neck. It didn’t sound like a proposal. It sounded like a craving.
I froze, a tangle of emotions knotting in my chest. I liked
him—God, I liked him. Quite a bit. But marriage? That felt like standing on the
edge of a cliff, staring down into something I wasn’t ready to leap into.
He pulled out slowly, leaving me empty and aching. He kissed
my lips, my shoulder, the inside of my thigh, and then he was gone.
The silence afterward was thick with memory. I stripped the
sheets from both beds—damp with sweat, sticky with cum. I left a note for his
cleaners, making sure they knew what needed handling. Then I showered,
scrubbing away the physical traces of him but not the way he lingered under my
skin.
Thirty hours passed.
Then—without a text, without a call—Ethan showed up.
He stood in my doorway, still in his scrubs, hair tousled,
eyes burning. I didn’t speak. I untied my robe and let it fall open, letting
him see I was bare beneath it.
His nostrils flared.
He stepped inside, shut the door with a soft click,
and within seconds he had me pressed against the door, his mouth crashing into
mine like we’d been starving. His tongue swept into my mouth with a hungry
desperation, his hands already sliding up my thighs, fingers teasing along the
slick heat he knew was waiting for him.
“You’re already wet,” he growled.
“For you,” I whispered, grinding against his hand.
He spun me around, face-first against the door, one arm
curled around my waist as he tugged his scrubs down just far enough. I moaned
as I felt the head of his dick press against me, slick and hard and hot.
Without hesitation, he thrust inside me, deep and rough.
“Fuck, I missed this pussy,” he groaned, driving into me
with fast, brutal strokes.
My hands slapped the door for balance as he pounded into me,
one hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip so tight I’d bruise. My
orgasm hit hard and fast, ripping through me with a cry I couldn’t hold back.
He didn’t stop. He kept going, hips slamming against my ass, dick hitting all
the right places with ruthless precision.
He came with a growl, slamming deep inside and holding
there, pulsing against my walls.
We barely made it to the couch before round two.
This time it was slower—messy, intimate, deliciously dirty.
He fingered me until I was writhing, teased me with the head of his cock, then
filled me again while staring into my eyes like he could see every secret I was
keeping. He kissed me through it, soft and deep, even as his thrusts made me
tremble.
Later, wrapped in sheets and sipping wine, he brought it up
again.
“Marry me,” he said, quieter this time. Less command, more
hope.
I looked at him, heart pounding. “I’m not ready.”
He nodded, but something in his expression shifted—he wasn’t
hurt, just... waiting.
“I do want this, though,” I added. “I want you. I
want to be your girlfriend.”
That smile—slow, wicked, disarming—spread across his face
like sunrise. “Finally,” he murmured, setting his glass aside and crawling over
me. “Mine.”
The rest of the night blurred into heat and hands and
sweat-slick bodies. He spread me open, licked me until I begged, then slid his
dick inside of me and made love to me slow, like every thrust was a promise.
We didn’t sleep much.
By morning, we were both wrecked and starving. Ethan pulled
me into the shower, soaped me down with careful hands, then bent me over the
tiled wall and took me again while the water poured over us. I screamed his
name as I came, loud enough to echo.
Afterward, we lay on the bed, barely touching, just
breathing the same air.
The day slipped by in a haze of quiet conversation, soft
kisses, wandering hands. We ordered food and barely touched it. We couldn’t
keep our hands off each other.
That night, it hit again—harder.
He pinned me to the mattress, spreading my legs wide,
watching me with hunger like it was the first time all over again. His voice
was rough as gravel. “You’re not going anywhere.”
I didn’t want to.
He rode me like he owned me—thrusts deep, relentless,
possessive. When I begged for more, he flipped me over, yanked my hips up, and
slammed into me from behind, one hand tangled in my hair, the other slipping
between my legs to rub me as he fucked me senseless.
When I came, I collapsed into the sheets, shaking.
He held me there, buried inside me, kissing my spine. “You’re
mine,” he whispered. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I breathed. “All yours.”
Even through the soreness, the swollen ache between my legs,
I still wanted more. And Ethan—he had no problem giving it to me.
He owned every part of me that night. Body. Heart. Soul.
And I didn’t want it back.
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