M A C K

Matt's hands were gripping the headboard, his knuckles white. The sweat on his back caught the monlight through the open blinds, and his breath coming in ragged little puffs against your ear as his hips met yours in even thrusts. You could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, a kind of raw power he was trying to keep in check... his desires slowly taking over.

He looked down at you, his eyes lingering on your face. A little smile crept onto his lips, and he slowed down just for a second. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, and he let out a low, breathless laugh. "Fuck," he whispered, his voice kind of shaky. "Look at you. You're so... you're so perfect."

Then, it was like a wave hit him—that overwhelming feeling. His jaw clenched, and a little growl rumbled in his chest as he buried his face in your neck. His hips pushed forward, a little harder now, a little rougher, like he was trying to get even closer. "Jesus," he choked out, the word muffled against your skin. "I can't stand how fucking cute you are."

Every push became more urgent, more possessive. His hands slid down to your hips, his fingers digging in just a little. He lifted his head, his eyes blazing. "Mine," he rasped, the sound rough and raw. "All mine." His rhythm got a little messy, lost to the sheer intensity of the moment. You could feel the tremor in his arms as he fought to not completely lose it.

He kissed you then—not soft, not gentle. It was messy, desperate, their teeth clashing. A groan tore from him as he pulled back, panting. "You're too much," he whispered, his voice wrecked. "Too fucking perfect." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven. He was shaking, every muscle taut. That initial sweetness had sharpened into something more raw and overwhelming.

His pace picked up, his hips slamming into yours. Each thrust took the air from your lungs. He watched you, his eyes dark and hungry, tracking every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. "That's it," he gritted out. "Look at me. Only me." His thumb swept across your bottom lip, both possessive and gentle at once. It was a dizzying contradiction—the force of his movements, the reverence in his touch.

A soft whimper escaped you, and his gaze snapped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. His breath hitched. "Fuck, that sound," he groaned. "You're killing me." He buried his face in your hair again, inhaling sharply. His movements became erratic, wild. He was close, trembling with the effort to hold back. "Need you," he choked out. "Need you so bad it hurts." The words were a ragged confession against your skin.