Strictly S. Winchester

@jaredwalkersam

He’s on you before you can move, big hands fisting in your shirt and slamming you back against the wall hard enough to rattle the cheap picture frame. His mouth crashes into yours, desperate and messy, all teeth and hunger. His tongue invades like he owns you already, and when you moan against him, he swallows it down like it’s fuel.

“You’re mine,” he rasps between kisses, dragging his lips down your throat. His teeth scrape over sensitive skin before biting down, not caring if he leaves a mark—or ten. “You don’t get it. You’re mine. All of you.”

His words burn hotter than Hellfire. You grind against him, shameless in the way you feel his cock straining against his jeans. “You say that like I’d fight you on it,” you taunt, voice honey-sweet.

Sam snarls, hand wrapping around your throat—not tight enough to cut off air, but firm enough to make your knees weak. “Don’t play games with me,” he spits, eyes flashing black for a heartbeat. “You think I don’t know why you keep coming back? You feed me this power, tempt me with it, then look at me like I’m the monster.”

Your laugh is sinful, low and taunting. “Maybe I like the monster.”

That’s all it takes for him to snap. He spins you around, bending you over the dresser so your cheek presses against the cool wood. His hands are rough, tearing your clothes away with zero patience. He grinds against your bare ass, the sound he makes nothing short of depraved.

When he finally frees himself, he doesn’t waste time. The stretch burns, filthy and raw, but it makes you whimper in a way that drives him insane. His hands grip your hips, bruising in their force as he slams into you, over and over, each thrust harder than the last.

“Fuck,” Sam hisses through clenched teeth, hair sticking to his forehead as he pounds into you. “You feel like you were made for me. Hell, maybe you were.” His hand slips down, fingers finding you, rubbing rough and fast with zero mercy. “Take it. Take me. You’ll never want anyone else after this. I’ll make sure of it.”

Your nails claw at the dresser’s edge, body arching with every brutal thrust. You can feel the heat coil low in your stomach, fire licking at your insides until it’s unbearable.

Sam leans forward, chest pressed to your back, his mouth against your ear. “Say it,” he demands, breath ragged. “Say you’re mine.”

And when you do—when the word rips out of your throat on a moan, wrecked and desperate—Sam loses it. His rhythm falters, thrusts sloppier, harsher, chasing his own high like he’s been starved for centuries. He bites your shoulder, growling into your skin as he comes, spilling into you with a shudder that borders on violent.

Your own release follows, dragged out of you by the relentless grind of his hips and the filth of his praise. The world goes white for a moment, nothing but Sam’s name and the heat of his body holding you down.

When it’s over, he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t let go. His hands stay on you, possessive, his chest heaving against your back.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers, voice hoarse but certain. “Not now. Not ever.”

And the terrifying part? You don’t want to.