Chapter 85: Thorne Learns to Beg

He growls, actually growls, low in his chest, the sound of a big predator trying very hard not to flip the script, not to pin her down and take what he wants.

Dove knows he could. One flex of those massive arms and she’d be on her back in half a second, completely at his mercy. The fact that he doesn’t that he lies there and lets her ride him at whatever excruciating pace she chooses makes something hot and possessive unfurl in her chest.

"Please," he manages finally, voice wrecked.

"Please what?"

"Please move faster."

She considers it, just to torture him further, drawing out the moment of his hope before she answers. "No."

He makes a sound like he’s been struck, head tipping back against the pillow, throat working.

She keeps her pace exactly where it is slow, deliberate, a long grinding roll of her hips that has her own breath catching every few strokes and watches him come apart beneath her in increments. His hands twist in the sheets. His thighs tense under her.

His hips keep trying to buck up to meet her and every time, every single time, she stills, pinches, waits, until he forces himself to stop.

"You’re killing me," he breathes.

"Mm." She smiles, sliding her hands up his chest, finding both nipples this time and pinching simultaneously, watching his whole body jerk. "You love it."

He laughs a broken, helpless sound and then it turns into a groan as she finally picks up the pace, just slightly, just enough to reward him, to let the drag of him against her walls turn sharper, more purposeful.

She feels her own pleasure building in response, a tight coil low in her belly that tightens every time she sinks fully down onto him, every time she feels the blunt head of him brush that spot inside her that makes her vision blur at the edges.

She has to bite her own lip to keep quiet now, has to focus, because the sounds want to come and she knows exactly how thin that wall is.

Thorne doesn’t have the same discipline. His breathing turns ragged, uneven, little broken sounds escaping every time she rolls her hips just right, and she watches his face contort — eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out and knows he’s close. Knows that look. Has seen it enough times to recognize every stage of his unraveling.

"Dove, I’m-ah" His voice cracks. "I’m gonna-haah"

She stops entirely. Goes utterly still, seated fully on him, feeling him throb and twitch deep inside her, right on the edge, right on the precipice.

"What a miserable face," she whispers, delighted, cruel, watching him struggle to hold himself together. "You better not come like that."

"Dove—" It’s a plea now, raw and desperate.

"You’re enjoying this punishment far too much," she murmurs, leaning down until her lips brush his ear, until her words are barely sound at all. "Hold it."

He makes a noise that’s somewhere between a sob and a growl, hips twitching helplessly beneath her, and she can feel the effort it takes him, the way his whole massive frame trembles with restraint, muscles locked tight, big hands white-knuckled in the sheets.

She waits until the danger has passed, until she feels the tension in him ease back from the edge, and only then does she start moving again slow at first, building, her own climax climbing right alongside his as she takes what she wants from him, uses him exactly as she pleases, this huge powerful man reduced to trembling and pleading beneath her small frame.

"Let me ride you," she breathes, more to herself than to him, a reminder, a claim.

"Behave," she adds, when his hips twitch up again, uninvited.

He obeys. God help him, he obeys, and the sight of it this alpha, this massive unyielding wall of a man, utterly undone and utterly hers pushes her the rest of the way over the edge.

"Look at you," Dove purred, her voice a fucking velvet whip coated in honeyed poison. Her hips rolled, a torturous, circular motion that made Throne’s massive biceps bulge, veins popping like ropes under his straining skin.

His cock throbbed inside her, a thick, iron-hard pillar buried to the fucking root. She felt every pulse, every desperate twitch against her swollen inner walls.

"Big, bad alpha. All that muscle..." She leaned forward, her breath hot and wet against his ear, her hand snaking down to cup his balls, heavy and tight against his taint. She squeezed, hard. "...trapped under my cunt."

Throne growled, a raw, animal sound ripped from his throat. His hips bucked instinctively, seeking deeper, seeking release. Dove slammed her palm flat against his rock-hard abs, pinning him down. "Uh-uh, good boy," she hissed, her voice dropping to a filthy whisper. "You fucking move when I say move. You cum when I say cum. Understand?"

She lifted herself almost completely off him, leaving just the swollen, dripping head of his cock stretching her slick entrance. She hovered there, letting him feel the cool air kiss the wetness she’d left behind, the unbearable emptiness. "This fat fucking dick belongs to me right now. Every. Single. Inch."

Dove comes with her forehead pressed to his, a silent, open-mouthed gasp against his skin as her body clenches and tightens around him.

She feels the hot, sudden rush as he unloads deep inside her a boat load of cum that fills her up until it’s spilling over, dripping out between their joined bodies as he shudders helplessly beneath her, released at last. For a long moment neither of them moves.

She stays there, draped over his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath her ear, feeling the slow ebb of her own pulse. Through the wall, there’s nothing. No sound at all.

She almost laughs.

A knock interrupted them after the room had settled. The trader stood in the hall with wet boots, suddenly interested in their departure time instead of Dove’s smile. Runoff was reaching the low crossing on the quarry road. If they wanted the easy entrance, he said, they needed to leave at dawn before it disappeared.