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You sit fully up and tug the sheet over your lap because modesty only arrives when you’re under surveillance. “I can go.”

His gaze drags back to your face, slow and unapologetic, like it’s a right he paid for. “You could.” His tone says he has no intention of moving to facilitate the attempt. “But you won’t.”

“Bold of you to assume I won’t stomp out of here right now.”

He shrugs the jacket off and tosses it onto the chair by the desk. Leather sighs against wood. He smells like rain that didn’t quite fall, asphalt heat that did, the trace of something burnt and sweet from the city’s neon. He’s still taking you in like a threat assessment he wants to fail. The stir in his sweatpants is impossible to ignore; you don’t try. His eyes flick to the way your attention snags there, and his smile turns mean and amused.

“Tim send you in here dressed like that?” he asks, casual as broken glass.

Your jaw tightens. “Tim told me to sleep. I was tired.”

“Sure.” He’s inside the circle of the room now, moving with that predatory patience that always makes your pulse do something humiliating. His knuckles are scraped, thumbnail blackened at the side. He peels his tee over his head, the hem dragging up hard muscle, old scars, a new bruise blooming purple near a rib. The shirt hits the chair. He doesn’t stop watching you. “And you just happened to choose my bed.”

“Every other bed is full,” you say again, but it sounds thin, defensive, because you both know you could have picked a couch. You could have asked Alfred. You could have stayed at your place. You didn’t.

Jason gestures vaguely toward the pillows with two fingers, like pointing at a crime scene. “Feet on my sheets. In my shirt.” His gaze narrows, and your stomach lurches, late to realize what he’s noticed. The collar is broad, slouchy, the cotton soft with too many washes, the graphic cracked. It’s his. You grabbed from the dresser without looking.

“I…” your throat scrapes, dry. “It was clean.”

“Debatable.” He’s closer, close enough that you can see the ragged crescent of a healing bite near his shoulder. Not yours. It stings anyway. “Stand up.”

You don’t move. “Why.”

“Because I said so.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He never needs to. It sits low and warm, smoke curling off the word. “Up.”

You swing your legs off the bed and stand. The shirt skims your upper thighs; the air kisses the backs of your knees. You feel strangely taller and smaller at once, spine straightening as if that could tilt the balance of power in your favor. Jason steps into your space, and your breath stutters like a broken vinyl groove. He reaches past you, not touching, to flick on the second lamp. Softer light pools across the room, buttery and accusing.

“Spin.” A lazy command.

You arch a brow. “Absolutely not.”

There’s that grin again, the one that says he likes you better when you fight. “You’re in my room,” he says softly. “In my bed. In my shirt. And you want to tell me no?”

“Consent is still a thing you know, right?” you snap, heat snapping off your tongue as defense against the different heat sliding lower. “Older brother of my best friend and all.”

His eyes flare, not with anger, something darker. “It’s the first thing I know.” He steps closer; your knees hit the mattress edge. He plants his palms on either side of your hips on the bed, caging you without touching. His head dips, breath touching your cheek. “It’s also why I’m asking nicely before I decide whether you’re here on purpose.”

“You think I planned–,”

“I think,” he murmurs, and the scrape of his voice in your ear draws goosebumps up your arms, “you knew exactly whose room you were walking into, and you’ve been pretending for months that you don’t look at me the way you do. And I think you wanted to see what would happen if the door opened.”

Silence stretches; your pulse hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The manor’s air system sighs and resets. Somewhere in the garden, a night animal chirrs and is quiet again.

“Now spin,” he says, even softer.

You do, not because he told you to, you tell yourself, but because the need to not break eye contact buckles your knees. You give him your back. The shirt is longer this way, but he’s taller, and the hem doesn’t stand a chance under his angle. You feel his breath on the nape of your neck before you feel his hand.

Two fingers curl into the hem and lift. Cool air licks over the lower half of your ass. Your skin pulls tight, every nerve at attention. His knuckles skim once, an accidental-on-purpose graze, down the outer curve of your thigh. The noise you make is barely a sound and far too loud.

“You say stop,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it. “And I’m gone.”

Your fingers twist in the sheets. “Don’t stop.”

“What do you want then, then?”

You swallow. There’s a word already in your mouth, waiting. “For you to keep going.”

“Good girl.”

The words go off in your belly like a firecracker. Your breath shivers. You feel his smile against the side of your neck, not a kiss, just the heat of it. He doesn’t push; he waits. That’s somehow worse. Your body sways back an inch, gravity, you lie to yourself, and your hips brush his thighs. Heat thrums through thin cotton. He’s hard. The knowledge punches a whimper out of you you don’t have time to smother.

“Careful,” he murmurs, and his hand flattens over the front of your thigh, just above the knee, firm enough to steady, gentle enough to make your eyes sting for no good reason. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.” You are. The sheets creak under your hands.

“Turn around,” he says again. You do. He leans back a fraction to look at you properly, eyes dragging a reverent ruin along clavicle, collar, mouth. He hooks one finger under the neckline and tugs, exposing a few inches more of skin like he’s unveiling a secret he already knew. “There she is.”

“Don’t,” Your protest splits, half-breath, half-moan, when his thumb slides slow along your lower lip, pressing just enough to part it. He watches your mouth open, the way your tongue trembles against the pad of his finger. The slick impression you leave there is obscene. His pupils blow, hungry and dark. “Jason.”

“Say it again.”

“Jason.” It’s not steady. You hate that he hears the way it melts.

He lifts that slick thumb to your cheek, smears shine along the curve like a brand, then drags the same thumb down the line of your throat where your pulse leaps frantic. The touch is barely there, a whisper; the possessiveness underneath is thunder. “You were going to sleep here?”

“Yes.” It lands like a confession.

“Like this?”

You refuse to look away. “Yes.”

He inhales once, long. The muscle at his jaw flutters. When he exhales, it’s through his nose, controlled, as if he’s smoothing the nap of his own temper back into place. “You know how dangerous that is.”

“I trust you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Something cracks in his eyes, just a fissure, light glinting off something tender and poorly hidden. He leans in until your noses almost brush. You can count the blue in his irises, different shades flecked like a bruise you want to kiss better. His breath is mint and night and the sour shock of adrenaline not quite burned off.

“Then listen carefully,” he says. “You’re in my bed. You’re wearing my shirt. If you stay, you do as I say. You stop me with one word if you want out. You don’t, I decide what you get and when.” A beat, heat thrumming between syllables. “And you do not, under any circumstance, say Tim’s name in this room again.”

You exhale like you’ve been dunked in cold water. “He’s my best friend.”

His eyebrow tilts. The warning is gentle and absolute.

“Fine,” you whisper, pulse roaring. “Not in this room.”

“Good.” He taps your bottom lip once more with two fingers, and the command lands like a hand at the base of your skull. “Open.”

You do. He slides the pads of his fingers in, not deep, not filthy, just enough to make you feel it, the weight of obedience on your tongue. Your eyes flutter. A shiver courses down your arms. He watches your mouth wrap around his knuckles like it’s a religious experience and a crime.

“Bite,” he says.

You close gently, pressure, not pain. He hums, satisfaction low and rough. When he withdraws, your mouth stays open on instinct, ruined, wanting. He looks at his fingers, wet, and then at you like he’s deciding where he’s going to put that want first.

“Lie back,” he says.

Your knees give like they were built for this moment. You crawl up the bed, spine sliding the headboard until the wood catches between your shoulder blades. The shirt rides higher. Your panties cling. You can feel the flutter of your own pulse at the seam. Jason brackets your legs with his, one hand planting above your head, the other hovering an inch from your knee, the question sharpened into a promise.

“Last chance,” he murmurs. “Stop?”

Your throat works. “God, please don’t.”

The tiniest smile, feral and fond. “Atta girl.”

He doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He just looks, at your mouth, your throat, the hard points of your breathing under cotton, and lets the air between you turn electric and bright and dangerous. His palm settles warm and wide on your thigh.

“Spread your legs,” he says, voice honey-slow and iron-sure, “and let me look at what you brought into my bed.”

Jason doesn’t give you a chance to rethink your choice as you lay flat on your back, legs parted, the hem of his shirt bunched indecently around your hips. His weight cages you in, one palm planted above your head, the other sliding low, low until his knuckles brush the edge of your panties. The heat of him radiates, his body crowding yours, the sharp mix of leather and sweat filling your lungs, the restless night of Gotham still clinging to his skin.

His eyes drop, and your stomach twists. The panties you grabbed in a hurry, thin cotton, not remotely meant to be seen, are soaked through, darkened with your arousal. Worse, the outline of you is visible under the damp fabric, shameful and obvious. You think about tugging the hem of his shirt down again, hiding, but Jason’s already smirking, tongue pressing against his cheek as if the sight amuses and wrecks him in equal measure.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough, almost reverent before it sharpens into a blade. “I can see everything. Pathetic.” His hand presses over the damp spot, fingers dragging in slow circles, like he’s confirming what his eyes already told him. “You didn’t even last a minute before soaking yourse;f.”

Your body jolts, a whimper cracking loose, muffled when he dips his head close. He chuckles low, the sound rumbling into your chest. “All spread out in my bed, wearing my shirt and these cheap little panties, dripping like you’ve been waiting on this for months.”

Your hands twitch toward the hem of the shirt, desperate to cover up, but Jason beats you to it. He grips the collar and pulls, hard enough that the fabric slides up, baring your stomach, your chest, your throat. “Off,” he growls.

Heat burns your cheeks as you sit up just enough to yank the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Naked except for those thin, soaked panties, you shiver under his stare. His gaze sweeps over your bare skin, hungry and sharp, and you know it’s not approval that curls his lips; it’s possession.

Then, as if to twist the knife, he leans back just enough to murmur, “Leave ’em on.” His fingers toy with the elastic, tugging and letting it snap back against your hip. “I can push ’em to the side when I’m ready.”

The words hollow you out, leaving you raw and trembling. Jason’s hand cups you over the panties again, firmer this time, his fingers pressing with practiced precision. He doesn’t rush. He strokes slow, deliberate, finding the spot that makes your thighs clamp around his wrist before you can stop them. His other hand braces across your stomach, pinning you to the mattress when your body bucks up against his touch.

Every pass, every circle is calculated, dragging you higher and higher until your nails dig crescents into his forearm. You’re panting, legs shaking, and the climb is fast, terrifyingly fast, your orgasm gathering, ready to break.

And then his fingers are gone. The sudden absence shreds a sob out of you, sharp and broken, your hips jerking uselessly for friction. Jason leans back on his haunches, looking at you sprawled out beneath him, shirtless, shaking, panties clinging wet and transparent to your cunt. He lifts his hand, fingers glistening with your slick in the lamplight, and grins mean.

“Easy, sweetheart.” His voice softens like velvet over steel, brushing soothing against the raw ache he just carved. He drags those wet fingers up the inside of your thigh, not touching where you need him, just teasing, just reminding you he’s there. “I’ve got you.”

Your whimper catches in your throat, frustration sharp enough to burn. You try to chase him, but he presses his palm flat against your belly, holding you down with humiliating ease. Your body thrashes for more, desperate and wild, and Jason just watches, cruel satisfaction curling his lips.

“You’ll cum,” he promises, his mouth brushing your temple like it’s tenderness, even as his teeth scrape a warning into your skin. “But not until I say.”

His palm is heavy then, between your thighs, fingers grinding through the ruined cotton again, the wet fabric clinging so tightly that every ridge, every swollen line of you is visible. He presses down, slow and deliberate, rolling his hand against you like he’s shaping the pressure to your gasps.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, watching your hips arch into his palm. “Soaking through your panties like a little slut. They weren’t even meant to be sexy, were they?” His thumb hooks into the waistband, tugging, snapping it back against your hip with a sharp sting. “Plain cotton. Not even lace. Not even trying.”

Your cheeks burn, your shame scorching hotter than his touch. “I don’t,” you swallow, throat raw, “I don’t care, just… Please, Jason!”

“Please what?” He dips two fingers low, dragging the slick outline of your slit through the fabric. The cotton sticks, turns shiny under the lamplight. “Please take them off? Please rip them? Or please fuck you through them until they’re ruined and you’ve got nothing left to wear home?”

Your hips buck hard at the last words, your body betraying you. Jason smirks, teeth flashing white.

“That’s it,” he croons, pushing harder until your clit throbs against the rough drag of fabric. “My greedy girl. Can’t help herself. Messy and dripping and begging in my bed.” He pauses, leans closer until his lips brush the shell of your ear, his voice a razor wrapped in velvet. “My mess. My greedy girl.”

You can’t hold back the broken sound that escapes you, half-sob, half-moan. “Yours. I’m yours, please, Jason, I can’t.”

His hand snaps up from your cunt to your throat, choking slightly, ripping a guttural groan from your throat. “Can’t what?” His eyes are fire, burning right through you. “Can’t wait? Can’t behave? Or can’t believe how badly you want me to fuck you?”

Your lashes flutter as tears prick, your body thrashing against the palm still pinning your stomach down, heart beat hammering against the hand on your throat. “I need you.”

He chuckles, low, cruel, and soft all at once. “Need me to shut you up, that’s what you need.” His fingers rub your clit in tight, merciless circles through the soaked cotton, and your head jerks back against the headboard, your mouth spilling gasps without permission. “If you can’t keep quiet, sweetheart, I’ll fix it for you. These panties would fit real nice between your teeth. Or maybe…” His hips shift, his cock grinding heavy and hot against your thigh through his sweats. “…maybe I’ll give you something better to gag on.”

The filth makes your walls flutter around nothing, your cunt aching for relief. The coil inside you draws tight, unbearable, your body shaking with the promise of release. You can feel it cresting, the tears already slipping free as relief crashes over you.

And then his hand is gone.

Completely gone.

You let out a sharp, broken cry, your body spasming, clenching around empty air. The loss slices through you like a knife, pleasure turned inside out into pain. Your thighs shake, your breath comes ragged, and you press your hips up desperately, searching for anything, but Jason’s already pulling away.

He sits back on his heels, casual, like he didn’t just tear you apart. His hand glistens with your slick in the lamplight, obscene and glimmering, and he wipes it lazily on his thigh like he doesn’t even need the evidence of you clinging to him.

You sob once, soft and humiliating. He drinks it in.

“God,” Jason says, voice thick with smug cruelty, “look at you.” His eyes sweep over you, shirtless, shaking, cotton panties transparent and soaked, your thighs trembling with the force of what he stole from you. “Shaking. Crying. Dripping all over my bed like you’re praying I’ll take pity on you.”

You can barely breathe, tears slipping down your temples onto the sheets. He tilts his head, watching, grinning sharp and mean.

“You thought I was gonna let you cum, didn’t you?” He leans in, his lips brushing your damp cheek, his breath hot against your skin. “Not even close.”

His thumb drags across your lower lip, smearing a mix of tears and sweat. He pushes it just inside, pressing down until your mouth parts around him. His grin widens when you suck on instinct, desperate for anything he’ll give.

“Hungry little thing,” he murmurs, dangerous tenderness softening the edges of his cruelty. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll feed you. But not until you learn.”

Jason peels back from you with deliberate slowness, his gaze dragging down your ruined state like he’s cataloging every desperate twitch of your body. His hand goes to his waistband, thick fingers curling into the elastic.

Your breath snags when he pushes his sweats down, the fabric slipping low enough to tease the sharp V of his hips before he shoves them off entirely. His boxers go with them in one rough tug, pooling on the floor. He kicks the bundle aside with careless efficiency, leaving himself fully bare in the dim light of the room.

The sight knocks the air right out of your lungs.

He’s broad everywhere, his frame built from punishment rather than aesthetics, muscle stacked on muscle, shoulders and chest solid enough to block out the glow of the lamp. Dark hair dusts across his pecs and down his abdomen, a trail that thickens as it disappears into the nest at his groin. His skin is a map of violence: thin white lines, jagged ridges, half-moons from blades and bullets. And there, at the center of him, is the scar you can’t look away from, the deep Y carved into his chest and stomach, puckered and brutal, an autopsy scar that whispers the story of his death every time his body moves.

Your chest aches, not from fear, but from reverence. It’s proof of everything he’s survived. Everything he is.

Jason catches you staring, his mouth twitching in something sharp, like he’s daring you to comment. You don’t. You can’t. You drink him in silently, reverent and undone, your thighs pressing together uselessly as your cunt clenches around nothing.

Then your gaze drops lower, and you go dizzy.

He’s thick, impossibly so, his cock heavy and flushed dark at the head. The veins run ridged along the shaft, and the sight alone makes slick flood you again, soaking into the sheets. Precum glistens at the tip, catching in the light like a pearl, and your throat goes dry with need.

Jason smirks, smug and knowing, stroking himself once before crawling back up the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, sinking you deeper into the pillows, and then he’s between your thighs again, his cock dragging hot and heavy against the ruined scrap of your panties. The friction alone makes you gasp.

He hooks a finger into the elastic, yanking them to the side with no ceremony, baring your swollen, wet cunt. His cock drags through your folds immediately, smearing his precum with your slick, making a filthy mess of both of you.

“Finally,” he rasps, voice wrecked as he lines himself up. The blunt head of his cock nudges at your entrance, pressing just enough to stretch you without breaching. The pressure is dizzying, your cunt clenching as if your body could swallow him whole. But he never gives more than an inch, just shallow, teasing prods that leave you gasping, straining to take him deeper.

“Please,” you babble, hips canting desperately, words spilling before you can shape them. “Jason, I need it. I can’t, please!”

He grins down at you, wolfish and wicked, the fat head of his cock sliding through your slick folds like he’s in no hurry to give you what you want. He drags it up, nudging against your clit until your back bows off the bed, then down again, pressing at your entrance just enough to split you. The stretch is shallow, a mere tease, a promise without fulfillment.

Your body seizes, clenching hard around nothing, desperate to draw him in. Jason feels it. His grin widens, sharp and devastating. “God, she’s greedy,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. He thrusts just the tip in, barely breaching, then pulls out again with a wet drag that makes you sob. “Suckin’ me in like she thinks she owns me.”

You babble nonsense, hips chasing every movement, thighs trembling as your body writhes for more. “Please, please, Jason, I need it, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything!”

“Shhh.” His cock slides back up, grinding against your clit, circling slow until your breath breaks on a cry. “Listen to you. Can’t even keep your words straight. Just a messy little thing, whining for cock like it’s air.” He punctuates it with another shallow press at your entrance, barely inside before retreating again, laughing low when your body squeezes around nothing.

You’re leaking down your thighs, on your face tears mix with sweat, your chest heaving as your hands scrabble against the sheets. “Jason, please, I’m begging.”

“You call that begging?” he drawls, voice a molten mix of cruel and fond. He drags the head of his cock over your clit again, pressing down just long enough to make you jolt. “If that’s what you call begging, you’ll never get to cum. Try again, slut.”

Your sob catches, your head thrashing side to side. “Please, let me cum. Please. On your cock. I need it.”

He tilts his head, gaze steady, almost thoughtful in its cruelty. “Why?” His hand strokes lazily along his length once, smearing the slick of both of you, before he sets the blunt head against you again. “Tell me why I should let you.” He pushes in an inch, your walls clutching desperately, then pulls out with agonizing patience. “What’s so special about you that you’ve earned it?”

Your whole body shakes, caught between humiliation and need, the question punching the air out of you. You choke on a sob, words spilling incoherent. “Because! Because I need you, Jason! No one else. No one can make me feel this good. No one else can touch my pussy like this. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please, just let me cum.”

His laugh is low, dark, almost tender. “Sweetheart, you’re already good. That’s the problem. Good and greedy. And greedy girls don’t get to cum just because they want it.”

He rubs the head against your clit one last time, slow, firm, relentless, until you’re right there, trembling at the edge, every nerve screaming, and then he’s gone. He pulls back entirely, cock dragging wetly against your swollen folds before he sits back on his heels. The loss rips a broken sob from your throat, your body clenching around nothing, ruined and aching.

Jason fists himself lazily, his hand slick with arousal, eyes fixed on your shaking form. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Wrecked. Crying. Begging like it’s church. And I’m supposed to reward you for that?” His thumb smears precum around the swollen head of his cock, stroking himself like he’s savoring your desperation. “Nah. Not yet.”

Your chest heaves, sweat and tears streaking down your face, every nerve in your body raw. You can’t think, can’t breathe without begging for him, and Jason knows it. He fists himself slow, deliberate, eyes locked on the way you writhe like you’ve already been broken open.

“So pathetic,” he mutters, voice thick with contempt that sounds too much like affection. “Shaking, crying, dripping all over my sheets, and you haven’t even earned a damn thing yet.” He leans forward, the blunt head of his cock nudging slickly against your folds. “So again, why the fuck should I let you cum?”

You claw at the sheets, sobbing, your voice cracking. “Please, Jason, I’ll do anything. Anything, I swear, just let me cum.”

“Anything?” He presses at your entrance just enough to split you, your body seizing tight around nothing. His mouth curves into a smirk. “Then beg for it properly. Tell me what you want. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”

“I want you,” you choke out, shameless. “I want your cock. I need you inside me, please, Jason, please!”

“That’s closer.” His voice dips, dark and coaxing. “But it still sounds like you think you’ve got a choice.”

Your head thrashes against the pillows, hair sticking to your damp face. “I don’t. Because I’m yours. I’m your greedy girl, I’ll take it all, I’ll be good, please, Jason!”

His eyes flare, a dangerous softness threading the fire. “Mine. That’s right.”

And then he’s pushing forward, one brutal thrust burying himself inside you to the hilt. The stretch is vicious, overwhelming, your cunt gripping him so tight your vision goes white. You scream his name, nails raking down the scars on his back as your body tries to take the shock of it.

Jason snarls into your throat, teeth scraping your skin. “Christ. She’s starving for it. Pulling me in like she doesn’t ever want me to leave.” He grinds shallow, hips rolling just enough to drag the fat head along your walls, hitting every tender spot without giving you rhythm. His mouth curls into something sharp. “You want it? Then fuck yourself on me. Use me like the toy you’ve been dreaming about.”

The humiliation should scorch you alive, but it doesn’t. It only makes the ache sharper. You move, hips rolling desperately, forcing yourself down onto him in jerky, broken thrusts. Every inch you drag over makes you gasp, makes your cunt clutch tighter, makes you babble shamelessly into his shoulder.

“That’s it,” Jason growls, one hand clamping around your jaw, tilting your tear-streaked face up so he can watch every second. “Ride it. Show me how bad you want it. Do it good enough, maybe I’ll fuck you the way you’re begging for. Maybe I’ll even let you cum.”

You whimper, words spilling without filter, without shame. “I’m your messy girl. Your greedy slut, I don’t care, I don’t care if the whole house hears me, I just want you, I’ve only ever wanted this.”

Jason’s breath stutters, his pupils blown wide, his voice roughened to gravel. “Fuckin’ hell. Listen to you. Crying my name like it’s prayer. Wrecking yourself on my cock like you’d burn the world down just to get it.”

Your body obeys, hips jerking, thighs trembling, every part of you bent to his command. Slick coats both of you, obscene and loud, every slap of skin making you hotter, needier. The coil inside you twists, vicious and unrelenting, until it finally snaps.

Your orgasm hits like a bomb, ripping through you so hard you scream his name, cunt spasming around him in violent waves. Jason doesn’t let you go; he pins you down, buried deep, fucking you through it, holding you against him like you’re his to ruin and his to save all at once.

“Good girl,” he snarls against your neck as you shake and sob under him. “That’s my greedy little mess. Yeah, that’s mine.”

Jason doesn’t give you a second to breathe. The moment your orgasm rips through you, he clamps both hands down on your hips, holding you in place as he finally, finally lets himself go. His cock slams into you in ruthless strokes, deep and brutal, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs and the mattress against the wall in a steady, punishing rhythm.

You cry out, every sound broken and jagged, your voice spilling raw from your throat as your body jolts under him. The air is thick with sweat, the slap of skin, the slick wet sound of him driving into you again and again.

“Yeah,” he growls, teeth gritted, eyes dark as they rake over the way your tits bounce with every thrust, the way your nails dig red trails into his scarred shoulders. “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. You fucking earned this.”

Every snap of his hips is merciless, but his voice—his voice threads sweetness through the violence, soft edges in the storm.

“Good girl. Look at you, takin’ me so well.” “Perfect. Fuck, you’re perfect. Made for this cock.” “Mine. Every inch of you, mine to ruin, mine to love like this.”

The words tear you open as much as his cock does, the praise searing into your chest while his body pounds you deeper. He angles his hips just right and the head of him slams into that sweet, devastating spot inside you that makes your vision go white. Your cunt strangles him with every thrust, and Jason groans, low and guttural, his voice breaking.

“Christ,” he snarls, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his pace only gets rougher, his body grinding yours into the mattress. “Your cunt feels like fuckin’ heaven. Tight, wet, sucking me in like you’ll never let me go. Gonna milk me dry, aren’t you, greedy thing?”

You’re keening now, tears streaking down your cheeks, your nails clawing desperately at his back, needing to anchor yourself to something as the pleasure builds, sharper and faster than your body can handle. Jason doesn’t let up, if anything, he doubles down, pressing his thumb to your swollen clit and working it in tight, ruthless circles.

The jolt rips a scream from your throat, high and helpless, your whole body trembling under his.

“Don’t you hold back on me,” he orders, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple to your cheek. His jaw is clenched, his voice shredded with need. “I want it. Every drop. I want you to cum all over my cock while I fuck you apart.”

And you do. You shatter again, harder, wetter, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your cunt clamps down violently, spasming around him, sucking him in with greedy, fluttering pulses that make his hips falter.

Jason’s growl is animal, ripped from his chest as he buries himself deep, grinding into you like he can brand you from the inside out. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it,” His cock throbs inside you, thick and heavy, until he spills, hot and overwhelming, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it in your gut. He keeps moving through it, grinding and thrusting shallow as if he can’t stand to stop, wringing every ounce of release from himself and from you.

The brutal pace falters, slows, until his weight finally collapses over yours. He stays inside, still hard, still twitching, like he refuses to let you go. His mouth finds yours immediately, the kiss sloppy and wild, all teeth and tongue and desperation.

It isn’t careful, it’s starving. He devours you, lips bruising, tongue tangling with yours, kisses messy and unrestrained. And beneath the hunger, there’s something reverent, something aching, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you before you vanish.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips, only to kiss you again, hungrier, deeper, his hand cupping your jaw like you’re precious even now. “You’re mine. My messy girl. My greedy little slut. Mine, and all I’ve ever wanted.”

And then he kisses you again, slower, softer this time, sloppy with tenderness instead of hunger, like a vow, like worship, like he’ll break before he lets you go.

Your body feels paradoxical, weightless and heavy all at once. Every muscle trembles, your thighs still twitching from where Jason wrung orgasm after orgasm out of you. Your nerves sing, raw and overstimulated, every inch of your skin hypersensitive under the heat of his body.

He stays inside you even as the aftershocks ripple through him, cock twitching in rhythm with your fluttering walls, buried to the hilt like he’s staking a claim. His chest rises and falls against yours, slick with sweat, every shaky breath dragging over your damp skin. His forehead presses to your temple, grounding himself, grounding you, like neither of you could survive if he let go too soon.

At last, he exhales a ragged groan and slips free. The sudden emptiness makes your cunt clench painfully, and you whimper at the loss. But his hand is already on your hip, broad and steady, thumb stroking your damp skin as though to soothe.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice rough but soft, kissing the sweat-streaked curve of your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Warm wetness leaks from you immediately, his cum dripping down your thighs in thick, messy trails, staining his sheets. Jason’s eyes darken as he watches it spread. He doesn’t reach for a cloth. He doesn’t even consider letting it go to waste. Instead, he slides down the bed with deliberate intent, his big hands spreading your trembling thighs until you’re open wide for him again.

“Jason,” your voice cracks, still wrecked, still shivering.

He lowers himself between your legs like he’s kneeling at an altar. The first broad stroke of his tongue up your slit rips a broken gasp from your throat, half-pleasure, half-pain. He groans against you, deep and low, the vibration thrumming through your oversensitive nerves. His mouth lingers, lapping at the mixture of you and him with slow, reverent drags, like it’s holy, like you’re something sacred to devour.

Your cry cracks into a sob when his tongue dips lower, pushing deep to drink from you. He growls into your cunt, the sound animal, filthy, but his grip on your thighs is gentle; steadying, worshipful.

“Jason, baby, oh god!” you babble, trying to twist away from the unbearable overstimulation, but his hands keep you there, his thumbs pressing into your hips just enough to anchor you.

He lifts his head just long enough to rasp, “Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted,” before sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, sharp. Your back bows off the mattress, a ragged scream tearing from your chest, tears slipping hot and helpless down your face.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let you go. His mouth works you like a man starved, tongue flicking, teeth scraping lightly, groaning with every drag. “Could live here,” he growls into your swollen flesh, his words muffled but burning hot. “Right here, between your thighs, drinking you down, swallowing you until you don’t remember your own goddamn name.”

By the time he pulls back, his chin and lips are soaked, shining with slick and cum. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but it’s careless, he wants you to see it, wants you to know exactly what he’s done.

Then he’s crawling back up your body, dragging his weight over you until you’re caged again beneath him. He catches your mouth in a kiss so messy and consuming you can taste yourself on him, salt, sweat, sex, his tongue pushing past your lips like he’s giving you back what he stole. The kiss is all teeth and hunger, sloppy and unrestrained, his desperation bleeding through.

When he finally eases off, his body molds to yours, broad and heavy and unmovable. His arm locks around your waist, tucking you tight against him like he’ll never allow you to slip away. He presses his mouth to yours again, slower this time, reverent, lingering as though he’s making a promise with every brush of his lips.

You start to panic. Was this a mistake? This is your best friends brother. 

Fuck.

“This isn’t a mistake,” he rasps, voice hoarse but steady, heavy with conviction. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb stroking gently along your jaw. “Don’t you dare call it that.”

Your eyes blur with tears again, but these aren’t from overstimulation. Somehow, he knew exactly where your mind had ventured. His forehead presses to yours, eyes burning into you. “This is just the start. You hear me?”

You nod, breathless, your chest too tight to manage words. But Jason’s grip on your face tightens, his stare daring you to look away. “Say it.”

Your voice cracks, but the truth spills easier than breath. “Just the start.”

Jason exhales like you’ve just saved him, a sound rough and unsteady, and then his mouth crashes into yours again, hungry and desperate, but laced with reverence. He kisses you like he’s starving and like you’re holy, like he’s worshiping and devouring you all at once.

“My sweet girl,” he breathes against your lips between kisses.  He tucks you tighter against his chest, your ear pressed over his pounding heart, his breath ragged in your hair. And for the first time all night, you feel safe in the ruin he’s made of you, safe, wanted, and owned.

And you know he’s right. This is only the beginning.