Author:Emma Chase

His free hand grips mine and brings it around front to my clit. Pressing my fingers down, compelling me to pleasure myself.


Guys have a thing for masturbation. I’ve come to realize it’s a huge turn-on—like throwing a match into a barrel of gasoline.


He releases my hand, but my fingers continue to move like he wants them to. Like I’m a puppet on a string, and Drew is the master puppeteer. And then he leans back, taking the heat of his chest away.


The pace of his thrusting slows. And I feel his hand slide down my spine. Between us.


To my ass.


His hand kneads and rubs, then his fingers glide around the mounds of flesh. Back and forth over the hypersensitive hole between them.


And I tense up.


This is new territory for us. Well—for me. I have no doubt that Drew has, at one time or another, been inside every available orifice of the female form.


But for me it’s unknown. And a little nerve-racking.


His fingers make several harmless passes until I relax. Until the tension drains from my shoulders, and I’m once again distracted by the intense pleasure the rhythm of his hips invokes.


And then he slides one finger inside.


There’s no pain. No discomfort. Double penetration is a lot like skydiving. To truly appreciate it, you have to experience it. Words don’t really do it justice.


But I’ll try: delicious.


In a forbidden, naughty kind of way.


Slowly Drew moves his finger in and out, catching up with the pace of his cock.


And I’m moaning, low and deep and uninhibited. My own fingers rub faster—harder—in front. Then I gasp as he stretches me wider, making room for the second finger he just slipped in.


His movements are unhurried. Torturous and teasing.


And I want to open my mouth and beg for more.


More friction, more heat.


Faster. More. Please.


Drew compels me forward gently. Bending me over, so my hair brushes the bottom of the sink. And then he’s gone—out of my body.


And I ache with the loss of it.


Until I feel the head of his cock, wet with my fluids, stroking back and forth over the opening his fingers just occupied.


“Drew . . .”


It’s a keening moan, half pleasure, half pain.


All pleading.


“Say yes, Kate. Fucking Christ . . . please say yes.”


His voice is raspy. Raw.


With need.


For me.


And suddenly I feel powerful.


Strange, considering our current position, but still—I’m the one in control. He may as well be begging at my feet.


Waiting and hoping for my command.


I don’t think. I don’t weigh the options or contemplate the consequences. I only feel, submerged in rapturous sensation.


I let go.


And I trust.


“Yes . . .”


Ever so slowly, Drew presses forward into me. There’s a moment of pain—a stretching burn—and I inhale sharply. He pauses. Until I release my breath. Then, gently, he continues forward, until his most intimate flesh is fully ensconced in my own. Then he stays completely still. Letting my body adjust to the intrusion.


I feel his hand slide across my hip and down my thigh, coming around to my front. His hand goes under mine, his fingers rubbing in a circular motion. In that sensuous, magnificent way, before dipping inside me. Over and over and over again.


I always thought of anal sex as the ultimate show of domination, forceful, maybe humiliating.


But this doesn’t feel that way.


It’s primal . . . unexplored . . . but beautiful too. Sacred.


Like I’ve just given him my virginity. And in a way, I guess I have.


I move first, pushing back against him.


Giving Drew permission—wanting to know, to experience these new sensations. Needing to cross the finish line. With him.


It’s more than erotic. Beyond intimate.


Drew’s lips press against the skin on my back. Kissing and cursing and whispering my name. And then he’s the one moving. Taking back control. Gliding in and out—tender but steady.


It’s divine.


My hand clasps over his at my clit. My legs tremble and I know I’m getting close. So close. Like climbing a mountain and realizing the peak is just mere steps away.


Our breaths come in deep, open-mouth pants with each drive of Drew’s hips.


“Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . .”


Men’s orgasms are ninety percent physical. It’s easy for them to get off, regardless of where their thoughts are. Women have it harder. Our orgasms usually hinge on our mental state. Which means if you guys want to get us there? We can’t be thinking about that load of laundry in the next room, or the pile of papers waiting on our desks.


Which explains why it’s not Drew’s hand, or dick, that does me in.


It’s his voice.


With his forehead against my shoulder blade, he chants, “Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .”


It’s so unlike him.


He sounds open. Exposed.




This infuriating man, who always wants to be in charge, calling the shots. Who doesn’t make a move without examining it from every angle, turning it around in his amazing mind—the pros, the perks, the ramifications.


He’s falling apart behind me.


And as he whispers a litany of profanities and prayers—I fall over the edge.