Make Me

"You swear on your life a whole lot."

"And I'm still here. That has to mean something." He props himself up on one arm, looks you dead in the eyes. Completely serious. "I am discipline personified. You have never met a man with more self-control than me."

"You ate an entire sleeve of Oreos in bed last night."

"It’s different. That was emotional. This is physical. I am a fortress."

You're laughing now, which is a problem because when you laugh your body loosens up and he can feel that. His hips roll against you and the laugh catches in your throat and becomes something else entirely.

"I just want to feel you," he says, and his voice has dropped now, the joking gone out of it. "For real. Not through some filter. Condoms are like trying to see you with my eyes closed. I want to actually know what you feel like when you're wet for me."

Your breath stutters. Goddammit.

"Just the tip," he says.

"Nobody in the history of the world has ever meant just the tip."

"I mean it."

"You don't."

"I do." He reaches between you and pushes your underwear to the side and you feel the head of his cock slide against you, bare, skin on skin, and your hips buck up before you can stop them.

"See?" His voice is strained. "Just this. I'm not even inside you and you're already begging for it."

He's running the tip through your folds, dragging through the wetness there, nudging your clit on every pass. Your fingers are digging into his shoulders and you can feel every ridge of him, every vein, the heat of him so different without the barrier. You understand in this moment exactly what he was talking about because ... Oh, that's what he feels like.

"Say yes," he murmurs against your neck. "Just for a minute. I'll pull out. I promise."

And you are so tired of fighting something you stopped wanting to fight three minutes ago.

"If you don't pull out I'll kill you."

"I swore on my life, babe."

He pushes in.

The sound you make is obscene. It's involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep in your chest, because the feeling of him bare inside you is so different it doesn't even register as the same act. Every inch of him is vivid. You can feel the way your walls stretch to take him, can feel the heat of his skin against yours with nothing between you. He sinks in slow, achingly slow, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged against your lips.

"Fuck," he says. Just that. Like the word fell out of him.

He starts to move. Slow. Careful. Controlled. The fortress, doing his best. Short strokes, shallow, like he's rationing himself. His arms are braced on either side of your head and his jaw is tight and you can see the effort it's costing him to hold back. Something about that, the visible restraint, the way his whole body is taut with the discipline of not giving in, makes you wetter than any of the actual fucking.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay. This is fine. I've got this. I'm in control."

He is not in control.

You can feel the exact moment it shifts. His hips snap forward, harder than he meant to, and he buries himself all the way. You both groan, and his hands grab your wrists and pin them above your head. His pace changes. No more shallow strokes. No more careful. He's pulling almost all the way out and driving back in deep and your ankles lock behind his back on instinct.

"Fuck. Baby. Fuck." His voice is wrecked. "You feel so good. You feel so fucking good. I can't think."

"You said you'd pull out."

"I know."

"You~nghh~you promised." It’s getting hard to talk as he fucks the words out of you.

"I know. I know I did." He's not slowing down. If anything he's going harder, pinning your wrists tighter, his hips slamming into yours with a force that scoots you up the mattress. "I'm going to. I will. Just not yet. Give me one more minute."

The minute passes. He doesn't pull out. You didn't think he would.

His face is buried in your neck and his grip on your wrists has gone vice-tight. You can feel him thickening inside you, getting harder, that telltale throb that means he's close, and he starts apologizing between thrusts.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, baby, I can't. You feel too good. I tried."

You want to be mad but you can't because he’s so, so deep. So deep that your thoughts dissolve, and every thrust pushes a sound out of you that you can't control. Your legs are shaking. He's everywhere. Inside you, on top of you, his weight pinning you on the bed, his breath hot against your throat.

"I'm gunna cum, baby" he says, and it's not a question anymore. Not a negotiation. "I have to. I'm sorry. Don't kill me."

"You're~ahh~a fucking~~hah~liar."

His hand slides between your bodies and his thumb finds your clit and starts rubbing in fast, tight circles. The combination of that pressure — coupled with the stretch of him bare inside you — is so much that your vision blurs. You can feel it building at the base of your spine like a wave pulling back from the shore.

"Just cum with me, babe" he says. "You know your pussy is too good. You can’t blame me..."

You try to argue but his thumb presses your clit harder, and his cock drives in deeper, and then you break. Your walls clamp down on him as you cum. Then you feel it, the moment he lets go too, the hot rush of him spilling inside you in long, heavy ropes. He groans into your neck and his hips stutter and jerk as he empties himself into you.

…

…

…

Stillness. Both of you panting. Him still inside, receding slowly, the mess of him leaking out around the base of his cock.

He lifts his head. Looks at you. Has the audacity to grin.

"See? That was worth it."

"You are in so much trouble."

"Was it good though?"

You don't answer. Your silence is damning enough.

He kisses your forehead. Stays inside you. Doesn't even have the decency to look sorry about it. You close your eyes. Your body is still buzzing, still clenching around him in lazy aftershocks.

"I hate you."

"You don't mean that."