Forty-Five

Everything tingles. It's exquisite—painful and erotic all at once.

"Look at you," Lander whispers between kisses. "You're so stuffed, you can't even breathe well."

I release a strained but decadent groan, willing myself to relax against the thrust of his cock. Lander growls, smiling against my mouth. His lips trail down, traversing my neck, until he reaches my collarbone.

"You know how much I love those little gasps and pants? You know how much I think about them?" he asks. Stark blue eyes meet mine and I exhale, bringing my hands to his cheeks and holding his face inches from mine. Lander's tongue passes over his lips and he wets the lower one. His expression is a mixture of agonized desire and anticipation.

"Tell me."

"Every fucking night," he continues, pushing the dildo back into me. "I think about this every night. When you're under me. On top of me. When you're sleeping next to me." He thrusts fully with his cock, heightening the pressure once more. "You're everything to me, baby."

I grip his hair, holding the back of his head, wanting him impossibly closer. He fucks me thoroughly now, holding the dildo in place while his cock carries out an indulgent exploration of my most intimate parts.

It occurs to me in this moment how open I am—open in every sense of the word. I'm physically stretched to the limit and emotionally bare. For so long, I've concealed so much of myself, but not anymore.

"Give me a baby, Lander," I whisper, speaking while my hand traces his scalp.

He pulls back to look at me, never slowing. The words must sound different, even though I've made this demand before. He'll do anything I ask and it thrills him. It's all in his eyes—in the sparkling touch of blue. His mouth dips down to meet mine, kissing along the seam so deeply that I feel his tongue scrape my teeth. I massage my tongue back against his, letting the kiss grow messy. Wild.

I touch him all over. I kiss his lips, his neck, and his pectorals. My mouth goes lower and my tongue traces the outside of his nipple, lavishing it with wet licks until I suck it into my mouth. He lets out a groan and holds my head there, his fingers tangled in my hair.

"Baby, that's so good," he grits out before directing me to the other one.

I suck Lander's nipples back and forth, wetting them and pinching at them while he's nestled deep inside me.

The pressure has melted into fantasy, and my body pulsates with the tingles of a rising climax. In my core, the intensity is building, swirling up into an inferno of need. I'm malleable and ready beneath him, but he lets his body move fiercely like I need him to. With an abrupt tilt of his hips, he pulls all the way out and plunges back into me, sliding right into the space where his cock fits so nicely. On the fringes of rapture, I elevate my hips into the motion. I abandon propriety, shame, all of it. "Fuck me," I beg. "Fuck me and fill me. Harder. Please, harder."

He just can't say no to me. We're sick for each other and so disgustingly happy, and I never thought I could have this with a man—a connection so intimate and trusting, so unbelievably all-consuming. For a long time, the thought of ever giving myself fully to a man felt destructive.

Now, it feels like home.

He pumps the dildo to meet his strokes again and again. We fuck so vigorously, I can hear it: the slap of his skin against mine, the inimitable slide of my arousal coating his length inside of me, the groans escaping from our chests, and the squeak of the mattress beneath us. I'm so thoroughly gone to pleasure, I cry out, knowing my orgasm is racing ever closer.

"Where do you want my cum?" he asks, speaking through labored breaths.

The question is only spoken for the guise of choice. I have no choice—and neither does he. He's given me his cum a dozen different ways in a dozen different places, but we both know I like it best in my pussy. Our audience doesn't know though—the hundreds of people enraptured by the sight of us fucking live don't know. So I respond shamelessly, proudly, because this is what we like: "Come in my pussy. Fill me. Breed me. Make it drip out of me."

He confirms with a devilishly rough thrust, the first of many. He's getting close and the promise of his release has me mindless. I plead for it, working my hips to fuck the cum right out of him. My body lights up as my climax mounts, and my hands latch desperately onto his shoulders, scratching him. We're as close as two people could ever be without living under each other's skin and it's still not enough. I need him everywhere. I need traces of him inside of me.

"Damn," he's grunting, rough and staggered. "God fucking damn you feel good, baby. Your body feels so fucking good."

My pleasure swells into an uncontainable force, and I push aside all pretenses. Sometimes when I come, I hold back, forcing myself to be quieter, more composed. This time, I scream. Red hot tingles explode through me, slamming into every vestige of me, making everything feel so fucking alive. It's raw and it's primal, and I'd feel overwhelmed by how inherently instinctual this all is if not for Lander falling apart the same way.

We finish together. I buck against him, a tear running down my cheek, my fingertips digging into his broad back. His groans and his grunts mirror my screams and my gasps, and his spend fills me, hot and perfect, creating the most incredible mess. It overflows as usual. Lander always comes so much. Like so much.

I take it all, pulsing around him, milking it. I imagine him filling me and coating my womb, traversing every corner of space in my cunt.

Rolling off me, Lander mutters, "Fucking hell," before scrubbing his hand over his face. His cheeks are pink and there's sweat on his forehead and temples, but he looks so inconceivably handsome.

Lower, his cock is wet from my arousal and his cum. Lackadaisically, he runs his right hand over it while his left hand carefully pushes the cum dripping out back into my pussy. We've fucked so many times and Lander has come inside of me at least half the time. This is nothing new. Yet everything feels…grander.

I know this is a vow.

Deeply, inherently, I sense I've bound myself to this man for the rest of my life. This soundless, transparent promise is the loudest and most concrete thing in my world.

We belong together. We belong to each other.

The comedown is a blur. Beyond Lander carefully removing the dildo from my body, I don't register much other than his arms, his kisses, and the thrill of the red light.

When I separate from him to take stock of my worn and well-sated body, he watches me from the bed. His eyes track me as I reach for a silk robe and knot it around me before I kneel in front of my laptop to see the stream activity.

I've never made so much money during a stream in my life.

The chat is exploding, hundreds upon hundreds of adulatory comments, praise, excitement, and straight-up dirty remarks have flooded my screen.

I glance back at the guy on my bed, the one still basking naked in front of hundreds of people, absently stroking his dick with no inhibitions whatsoever. That guy is a lawyer—an exceptional one—but he's also an incredible cook, a phenomenal dancer, deceptively easygoing, and mine.

"All good?" he asks.

"They loved it."

"That's my fucking girl. Did he…"

I check my phone. Amid dozens of supportive messages from Cora and Essie—and a few from Dalton and Everett in our new group chat—there's an update from Essie: Cora was right. He watched. I screenshotted the IP and am putting together proof. PDF in your inboxes in two mins.

"All good," I confirm.

Lander inhales, steeling himself. He raises his chin, looks directly at the camera, and says, "By the way, Frank Cavendish, I have evidence of what you did. You have ten minutes to call me or I'm sending it to Bradford Waits."

And with that, Lander strolls off camera right before I end the stream.