The holy headboard
"Hold on," he says low, smug, absolutely infuriating. Voice like velvet dragging over broken rules. Voice like he already knows your knees are buckling.
He doesn't ask you to grab the headboard. He tells you. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been your purpose.
"Now." His palm smacks your thigh. Not playful. A warning. “Hold on like you’re about to forget your name.” And then he shifts forward hips flush against yours cock pressing right there, too hot, too real.
Your breath catches. He hasn't even fucked you yet.
Not properly.
But your body is already trembling like it knows.
"Look at me," he whispers. Not soft. Not gentle. Just sure. Sure of himself. Sure of you.
"You're going to come on this cock," he drawls, dragging his tip through slick folds, teasing you like it’s an art. "And then you're going to do it again. And again. Until you're too ruined to lie about what you want."
And when he slides in?
When that stretch hits you so deep your back arches without permission?
That’s when he leans down, mouth against your ear—breath hot, cruel, reverent.
“Be good for me now, Angel.” “Or I’ll make you beg into the mattress.”