"Shhh," he soothed, but his tone was dark with satisfaction rather than comforting. "Just take it. Take me. You're doing so well."
He began to move again, and this angle was somehow even more intense than the others. The restriction, the weight of him, the inability to move or adjust, it was overwhelming. She was completely at his mercy, pinned like a butterfly to a board.
His pace was frantic now, his own control finally beginning to fray. She could hear it in his breathing, feel it in the slight tremor in his muscles, the way his movements became less coordinated, more desperate.
He drilled into her with abandon, his breath hot and ragged directly in her ear. One of his hands found hers, threading their fingers together and pressing their joined hands into the mattress beside her head, a gesture that was somehow both tender and dominating.
"Mine," he chanted, a hoarse, guttural mantra with every thrust, every claiming stroke. "Mine. Mine. All mine. Say it."
