The deck was still warm from the morning sun, glowing gold beneath their bare feet. The naughty breeze danced lightly over her skin, carrying the faint scent of salt and jasmine.
He sat back in the wide teak deck chair—the kind that belonged in an old sea captain’s study with arms broad enough to cradle her hips. It groaned softly under his weight as he leaned back, long legs parted just enough, a glass of water in one hand, watching her like something hunted watches the flame.
She came to him slowly, instinctively.. Her body was still bare, bruised in the softest ways from the night before, thighs trembling faintly from overuse and memory. Her knees hit the wooden floor first before she climbed onto his lap, gracefully straddling him—one knee brushing the outside of his thigh, the other tucking between the chair and his hip.
She settled on him carefully, cunt bare against his lower abdomen, already slick again. Her skin flushed as she tried to meet his gaze, a soft bite of her lower lip betraying the storm behind her pretty face. She looked utterly breakable and yet so full of wanting.
“Don’t,” he was nearly affectionate.
Still, her hand reached up, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Then, a little braver—her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, then slipped toward his lips as if to offer herself, to feed him something from her hunger.
But he caught her wrist midair.
Her breath hitched.
“No,” he repeated, low and rich, like the first sip of aged bourbon. “Not your turn.”
He turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist instead—so reverent it made her eyes flutter closed. But then he let it fall idly in her lap. She tried again, this time leaning forward to kiss him. Her breasts brushed his chest, and her mouth parted, her body asking before her lips did.
But he tilted his head back slightly, evading her. Not cruelly. With purpose.
She stilled, lips hovering near his, her breath caught and hanging between them. His hands didn’t even touch her. That was the worst part. He didn’t need to.
“I want—” she whispered.
“I know what you want,” he said, his voice deep and ice cold. “You want to feel me. You want to come apart on me again, don’t you, babygirl?”
That name broke something in her. She nodded, cheeks flushed, hips shifting to seek friction against his stomach—but he didn’t allow it. His hands, finally, came to rest on her thighs, holding her firmly in place.
“But look at you,” he murmured, studying her. “Already desperate. Greedy.” his fingers played nimbly on her back.
Her breath trembled as she looked down, trying to find some edge to hold onto—her control was slipping like water through fingers.
Then he took her jaw in one hand, lifting her gaze back to him, thumb grazing her cheek with maddening softness
.
“You don’t play me,” he said, low and deliberate. “You offer yourself. Completely. Silently. Until I say what gets touched and when.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her breath was caught in her throat.
Then, he slid his fingers into her mouth—two of them, slow and commanding. Her lips wrapped around them like instinct, and she moaned around the intrusion, eyes wide and liquid.
“Good,” he said, watching her. “Just like that.”
She sucked them greedily, eyes never leaving his, every ounce of resistance melting into obedience.
And still—he hadn't kissed her.
He withdrew his fingers with a wet pull, brought them down between her legs, and grazed her soaked folds with the same calm dominance.
Her whole body shivered.
She moaned low in her throat as his fingers brushed against her—slick, aching, teasing—and it cracked something inside her. She surged forward without permission, without grace, and crushed her mouth to his in a kiss that was more demand than devotion. Her tongue invaded, her hips ground down onto his lap with frantic need, her small body trembling with urgency.
“I need you,” she gasped against his lips. “Now. Inside me. I want all of you—I need to be bred, to feel you dripping out of me again.”
The moment froze. Her words hung between them, filthy and defiant.
And just like that—his warmth disappeared.
He leaned back.
His hand slid from between her legs like silk withdrawing from skin, and she felt the absence like a slap. Her breath hitched. Confusion flared for a heartbeat.
Then he gripped her waist—not tenderly. Not this time.
Before she could blink, he was on his feet.
Her world tilted as he lifted her off his lap like she weighed nothing, her small frame no more than a doll in his hands. He stood with calm, lethal elegance, not a word spoken, his jaw set like a man deciding how thoroughly to discipline.
“Wait—” she started, voice thread. Too late.
He carried her across the deck, barefoot on teak, moving with slow, terrifying calm until her back slammed gently but firmly against the cool wood-paneled wall of the cabin. The sudden contact stole her breath.
Her eyes flew to his.
And there it was.
In that moment, his frame towered over hers, his eyes dark and fathomless, that sharp jaw ticked in displeasure—she knew.
Her lips curved into a wicked, knowing smirk. She wanted this. He saw it.
His palm caught her throat, not tight, just enough to remind her who she belonged to.
“You think you're cute, don’t you?” he said, his voice a velvet snarl. No raised tone.
“You think you can disobey, take what’s mine without permission, and I’ll still let you come like a good little girl?”
Her smirk widened.
He exhaled once through his nose. His fingers slid down from her throat to her collarbone, then over the swell of her breasts—bare, marked faintly from the night before—and lower, until both hands gripped under her thighs and lifted.
Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, her back arching as he pinned her against the wall.
“You’re aching for it, aren’t you?” he murmured, pressing his cock, still hard from her kiss, against her soaked folds. “But you forgot the most important rule.”
Her hips pushed against him shamelessly, hungry and helpless.
“Which is?” she whispered, lips trembling with arousal.
He leaned in, brushed his lips over her jaw, barely a kiss.
“That your body,” he whispered, voice low and lethal, “is not yours to command.”
She shivered violently in his arms, her smirk faltering into something raw and pleading.
His grip shifted—one hand pinning her wrists above her head, the other guiding his cock to her entrance, where he paused. So close. So maddeningly close.
Her cunt clenched in anticipation.
And her lips—those insatiable, troublemaking lips—broke into a slow, wicked smirk. She knew what was coming.
But he didn’t give it to her. He turned, carrying her again—this time to the long teakwood table nearby. The teakwood table barely creaked beneath her as he laid her down—her legs dangling off the edge, knees already falling open for him like instinct. His palms settled on her inner thighs, warm and commanding, spreading her wide with a precision that felt reverent and ruthless at once.
She was glistening. She was needy and trembling, and he didn’t touch her just yet. His gaze rose to her face, soaking in the way her pupils dilated, the way her breath caught in her throat as though she might sob from wanting. Her fingers had wandered upward, lazily toying with her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples as if teasing herself would make him move faster.
But he only watched her like a king studying the canvas of his conquest.
"You’re so wet already," he murmured, voice rich, dangerous, honeyed and dark. "Dripping for me... just at the thought of being bred, aren’t you?"
Her lips parted, a soft moan breaking loose—but he didn’t let her speak. He let his fingers glide slowly—agonizingly—over her folds. Feather-light circles that made her hips twitch, her toes curl. His thumb brushed against her clit, slow and cruel.
"Say it," he said, thumb pressing just enough to steal her breath. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to—"
"No," he interrupted, softly brutal. "Say it the way I want to hear it."
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