Dan

When Carmen awoke, it was to the unmistakable sound of a zipper. Her limbs felt boneless, her skin still buzzing from the aftershocks of Dan's relentless hands, mouth, cock. She blinked sluggishly, her lashes sticking together, the dim glow of the bedside lamp painting the room in amber. Dan stood at the foot of the bed, fully dressed, buckling his belt with one hand while the other scrolled through his phone.

The casualness of it—the way he could fuck her into a coma and then just... function—sent a hot twist of indignation through her. "You're leaving?" Her voice came out hoarse.

Dan glanced up, thumb still hovering over his screen. "Pizza's here."

Carmen blinked. The scent of garlic and melted cheese hit her then—thick, greasy, unmistakable. Her stomach growled audibly. She hadn't realized how ravenous she was until that moment, how thoroughly he'd drained her. The bastard had ordered food while she was ****.

She hated him for that. Hated him for knowing she'd be starving after three orgasms and zero calories. Hated him for the way he'd draped the comforter over her bare shoulders before leaving the bed—like she was something precious instead of a sweaty, fucked-out mess. Most of all, she hated him for the way...

Her fingers twitched toward the pizza box before she could stop herself.

Dan tossed his phone onto the dresser and cracked open the cardboard lid without ceremony. Steam curled lazily upward, clinging to his fingers as he tore off a slice—extra cheese with veggies, just like she always ordered. How the fuck did he know that? Had Lianne told him? Or worse—had he remembered from the one time they’d all gotten drunk and split a large after karaoke?

Carmen’s stomach twisted—not with hunger now, but something sharper, hotter. The bastard had fucked her stupid and now he was feeding her like she was some pet he’d tamed. She snatched the slice from his hand anyway, teeth sinking into the molten cheese before it could drip.

Dan watched her chew, his eyes dark, unreadable. "You drool in your sleep," he said, thumb swiping at the corner of her mouth where sauce had smeared. Carmen froze. His fingertip lingered, pressing just hard enough to part her lips. The intimacy of it—the casual ownership—sent a jolt straight to her already oversensitive pussy.

God, she wanted him to use her again. To fuck her stupid until her thighs trembled and her voice cracked from screaming. To pin her facedown into the pillows and fill her up until she forgot her own name.

Carmen swallowed the bite of pizza—barely tasted it—her eyes locked on Dan’s fingers as they lingered at her lips.

God, what would her sister think? The thought went through her. She’d come here to collect Lianne’s things. That was all. A simple task—march in, grab the box of clothes and books Lianne had left behind, maybe flip Dan off on the way out. Not this. Never this.

But now? Now Carmen was naked, her thighs still sticky, her body humming with the kind of exhaustion that only came from being fucked in the best possible way. And Dan—fucking Dan—was standing there, chewing a slice of pizza like he hadn’t just ruined her for anyone else. Like she wasn’t sitting there, her pulse still throbbing between her legs.

She swallowed another bite, the grease slick on her lips. “You knew,” she said, voice low. “You knew I’d fuck you.”

Dan shrugged, chewing slowly. “Had a feeling.”

That was it. No smirk, no gloating—just a man eating pizza after wrecking her for the foreseeable future. The indifference made her skin prickle. Carmen wanted him to brag, to say something filthy about how tight she’d been. Instead, he took another bite. The bastard even wiped his hands on a napkin like this was normal. Like she hadn’t moaned and orgasmed around his cock forty minutes ago.

Her pussy still throbbing faintly from the memory of him. She knew—with terrifying certainty—that if Dan crooked a finger right now, she’d crawl across the mattress and beg.

Carmen hated herself for it.

But her body loved it—loved the bruises forming on her hips where he’d held her down, loved the dull ache between her legs that throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Every shift of fabric against her skin sent sparks up her spine, a constant reminder of how thoroughly she’d been taken.

Carmen wanted to hate him. Needed to. But the truth curled like smoke in her lungs: she didn’t want this to be a one-time thing. Didn’t want to walk out of here and pretend it never happened—didn’t want Dan to be the ghost that haunted her fingers every time she touched herself alone in bed. She wanted him again. Wanted the way he’d looked at her while she came apart—like she was his.

"Lianne can never find out," she whispered, the words slicing through the silence like a blade. It was one thing to fuck her sister’s ex—another thing to want him.

He studied her—not like she was insane, not like she was pathetic—but like she’d just told him the sky was blue. "She won’t," he said.

Simple. Absolute. Like he’d already decided.

She couldn't put a name to whatever this was—this messy, **** thing between them, heat and need—but she knew she didn't want it to stop. Not now. Maybe never. The truth of it hit her deep, like her own pulse.

Carmen reached for him—not his wrist, not his shirt—but the buckle of his belt. The metal was warm from his skin. She flicked it open with one sharp motion, her fingers already working the button of his jeans before he could swallow. He didn't stop her. Didn't even blink. Just watched her with that same infuriating calm.

She hated that he was right.

The button popped open under her fingers. Carmen’s pulse hammered against her ribs as she dragged the zipper down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. Dan’s cock sprang free, already half-hard and thick. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t give herself time to second-guess. Just wrapped her fingers around him.

It was stupid—she’d just had him inside her, had felt him fill her until she couldn’t think—but the moment her skin touched his, something electric crackled between them. Her breath hitched. It still felt like the first time. Like she was discovering him all over again—the heat, the weight, the way his pulse jumped under her fingertips. She’d never been so aware of another person’s body, never felt so consumed by the simple act of touching someone.

Carmen’s throat tightened.

Even when her boyfriend had dared her to suck his friend’s cock while he watched—even when she’d done it, swallowing down the bitter-salt taste of a stranger while her ex panted encouragement from the corner—it hadn’t felt like this. That had been adrenaline, rebellion, the thrill of crossing a line. This? This was something else entirely.

Dan exhaled sharply when she leaned in, her lips parting just enough to catch the head of his cock. The groan that tore from his throat was ragged—unpracticed—and Carmen’s stomach flipped at the sound. He wasn’t immune. He wasn’t untouchable. She couldn’t break him though—she knew that now—but the raw, unfiltered noise he made when her tongue traced the swollen vein beneath his shaft? That was hers. A victory. A fucking revelation.

"You’re so good at that," Dan whispered, voice rough with restraint.

Carmen’s lips stretched around him, aching as she fought to take more of his cock—but she couldn’t. Every inch beyond halfway made her gag reflex kick in, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Drool slicked her chin, her fingers tightening around the base of him as she worked what she could with ****, uneven strokes. She hated the way her body betrayed her—hated that she couldn’t swallow him but could prove she was better than whoever else had tried.

Dan’s hand tangled in her hair, not guiding, not forcing—just holding. Like he knew she’d resent him if he tried to push. His hips twitched, his breath ragged above her, but he didn’t thrust. Just watched with intensity as she struggled.

"You suck cock better than your sister," he murmured, raw and unchecked.

The words hung between them like a grenade with the pin pulled. Dan expected Carmen to recoil—to spit in his face, claw at his chest, maybe even bite down hard enough to draw blood. He'd seen her temper firsthand when she'd stormed into his apartment earlier, all fury and sharp edges. But instead?

Carmen moaned around his cock.

Dan’s cock throbbed against her tongue. She felt it in her mouth, in her brain, in the way her jaw ached trying to accommodate him.

She wasn’t supposed to love this.

Carmen had come to pick up her sister’s things—a cardboard box of thrifted sweaters and dog-eared novels, maybe a half-used eyeliner or two. That was the plan. March in, grab Lianne’s shit, and leave without acknowledging how Dan’s apartment still smelled like her sister’s vanilla perfume. She certainly wasn’t supposed to end up fucking Dan.

Yet here she was. And she loved it.

Society would call it wrong—fucking her sister’s ex, letting him fuck her in ways that left her thighs trembling and her breath ragged, swallowing his praise like it was water. But Carmen couldn’t bring herself to care.

What was wrong with her? She should have been disgusted—should have recoiled when Dan murmured that she sucked cock better than Lianne. Instead, heat had coiled low in her soul, her mouth working him faster.

Carmen’s fingers tightened around the base of Dan’s cock, her lips stretched obscenely wide as she struggled to take more of his cock. She hated how her body reacted—how her pussy throbbed with every ragged noise he made.

And then she saw it—that look. The same one she’d witnessed three weeks ago when she’d burst into his apartment, catching him with that redhead. That same dark, unreadable intensity.

Carmen had screamed then. Had sworn she’d tell Lianne everything—had even reached for her phone, fingers shaking with fury. But Dan? He hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t pulled out, hadn’t even flinched. Just kept thrusting into that woman—slow, deliberate, his fingers tangled in her red hair.

That was when Carmen noticed two things:

1. The redhead wasn’t just coming—she was coming apart, her body arching off the mattress in violent, shuddering waves, her thighs slick and trembling. Her moans weren’t the breathy, performative ones Carmen had faked for lesser men—they were ragged, involuntary, like her lungs were being wrung dry with each thrust. And she wasn’t stopping. Her orgasm wasn’t a peak but a plateau.

2. Dan’s cock—god, his cock—wasn’t just thick. It was long. The redhead’s fingers scrabbled uselessly at the sheets, her body jerking with every brutal snap of his hips. Carmen had seen enough porn to know most men didn’t look like that. Most men couldn’t fuck like that—like they were cumming inside a woman just to claim her.

And now here Carmen was, sucking that same cock, her lips stretched tight around him. The memory of that day flashed behind her eyelids—Dan’s hands gripping the redhead’s hips, the way he’d fucked her through her orgasm. Like he owned her.

Carmen had never understood it before—the appeal of watching. She’d scrolled past cheating porn with disinterest, never lingered on videos where lovers were caught mid-thrust. But that day? Something had coiled in her soul. She hadn’t wanted to scream. Hadn’t wanted to storm out. She’d wanted to stay. To watch the redhead unravel, to count the seconds between Dan’s thrusts, to see how long it took before the woman’s thighs started shaking again.

Dan’s moan snapped her back to the present, his cock pulsing against her tongue. Carmen blinked, drool slicking her chin. His fingers tightened in her hair, not pulling, just holding, like he knew she’d bolt if he pushed too hard. The bastard. He’d let her retreat if she wanted. That was the worst part. He’d let her pretend this hadn’t happened. Let her walk away with her pride intact.

Then he pulled her from her knees.

Carmen barely had time to register the movement before Dan hauled her upright, his grip bruising on her wrists. Her pulse hammered against his fingers, her lips still wet from his cock. His gaze locked onto hers, as he dragged her toward the plush armchair near the window.

"Hands on the back," he ordered, voice rough with restraint. Carmen hesitated—just for a second—but the moment she saw his jaw tighten, something primal in her obeyed. Her palms flattened against the upholstery, fingers curling into the fabric as Dan stood behind her.

The first thrust knocked the breath from her lungs.

Carmen gasped, her nails digging into the chair’s upholstery as Dan buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. There was no easing into it this time. Just the feeling of him filling her all at once, her body clenching around him in shocked, involuntary spasms.

And then—she moaned.

Not the breathy little sounds she'd perfected for past lovers, not the half-hearted gasps she'd faked when she just wanted them to hurry up and finish. No, this was something else entirely—a raw, broken noise that clawed its way up her throat like it had been waiting years to escape. The kind of moan that belonged in cheap porn, the sort that would've made her roll her eyes if she'd heard it from another woman. But now? Now it spilled from her, her voice cracking on the second syllable as Dan's cock filled some deep, untouched place inside her.

She tried to speak—tried to tell him to slow down, to speed up, to never fucking stop—but her tongue felt thick and useless, her brain short-circuiting with each relentless thrust. The words dissolved the moment they hit her lips, coming out as nothing but mangled words and hitched breaths. The harder she tried to form coherent thought, the louder her body betrayed her—every syllable turning into a whimper, every attempt at speech devolving into moans.

Carmen’s fingers clawed at the chair, her thighs trembling violently as Dan pistoned into her without mercy. She could hear the obscene slap of skin, the wet sounds of her own body taking him so deep she felt him consuming her body. Her vision blurred at the edges, her mouth hanging open in silent, open-mouthed gasps. God, anyone could be watching—Lianne could be standing in the doorway right now, wide-eyed and shaking—and Carmen wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t even fucking notice.

What a horrible sister I am, she thought deliriously as another orgasm ripped through her, her cunt clamping down on Dan’s cock like a vice. Her knees buckled, but he held her upright effortlessly, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. The pleasure was unbearable—too much, too deep, too relentless—but she didn’t want him to stop. Never wanted him to stop.

Dan had known, of course. Known the moment she’d stormed into his apartment, all righteous fury and trembling hands, that she’d end up like this—sprawled across his furniture, dripping around his cock, moaning like a whore. Because Dan had a secret Carmen didn’t know about—one even Lianne had never uncovered. He could control when he came. No matter how great the pleasure, no matter how tight the grip around him, he could hold back indefinitely—could fuck her until her voice gave out, until her thighs shook too badly to stand, until she forgot her own name.

And Carmen was discovering it now in the worst—best—way possible.

Lianne had whined about it once over brunch, stabbing her fork into a limp waffle. "He doesn’t fucking finish," she’d muttered, lips glossy with mimosa foam. "Not unless he wants to. He's ike fucking a machine." Carmen had rolled her eyes, assuming it was just another one of her sister’s performative complaints—the kind designed to disguise a brag beneath a veneer of irritation. Oh no, my boyfriend’s too good in bed, woe is me. Bullshit. Everyone knew men couldn’t control that. They came when their bodies **** them to—end of story.

But now—now Carmen understood.

She loved it. Every filthy second of it. The way her body betrayed her, the way her pulse hammered in places she hadn't known could ache. The obscene wet sounds of Dan's cock plunging into her again and again, the way her thighs trembled like a prey animal caught in a predator’s jaws. She loved the shame of it—the knowledge that she was worse than her sister could ever imagine. That she would beg for this again. That she already knew she would.

And then—he pulled out.

Carmen gasped, her body jerking forward like a marionette with its strings cut, her fingers scrambling against the chair's upholstery as emptiness yawned inside her. "No—" The word tore from her throat raw and broken, more animal than human. She hadn't realized how much she needed him.

Dan didn't speak. Just caught her wrist—his grip warm, unyielding—and pulled.

Carmen stumbled after him, her thighs still slick, her pulse hammering where his fingers circled her skin. The carpet burned under her bare feet, the air thick with sex and pizza grease. She should've resisted. Should've dug her heels in, slapped his hand away, reminded him she wasn't some docile thing to be led around. But her body moved before her brain could protest, her back hitting the mattress with a soft thud.

Dan climbed over her—slow, deliberate—his knees pressing hers apart like he owned the space between them. And then—he pushed in. No warning. No teasing. Just the thick, relentless feeling of him filling her in one smooth stroke. Carmen's breath hitched, her fingers scrabbling at the sheets as he settled deep, his weight pinning her hips into the mattress.

Missionary was his favorite—not for the intimacy, not for the illusion of tenderness—but for the view. The way a woman's pupils dilated when he bottomed out, the way her throat worked around silent screams. He loved watching Carmen's lips part in that perfect, shocked O—her lips trembling together like she couldn't decide whether to curse or beg.

Dan's cock was so hard it hurt her— the relentless, unforgiving thickness of him. Every ridge carving itself into her memory as he fucked her with slow, grinding thrusts. Carmen bit down on her tongue refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her whimper. But her body betrayed her—her hips jerking up to meet his, her cunt fluttering around him in helpless, rhythmic spasms.

She mumbled, "I love—" before burying her face into his shoulder, teeth sinking into skin to stifle the rest.

Dan froze mid-thrust. Not because he hadn't heard—he had—but because Carmen had never said anything like that before. Not during sex, not after. Not even as a lie. Her breath hitched against his collarbone, lips still pressed to the sweat-slick curve of his neck like she could take it back through sheer **** of will.

"Say that," he demanded, voice rougher than he intended. His fingers dug into the meat of her thigh, spreading her wider as his cock twitched inside her. The words had hit him like a live wire. As if she'd finally admitted what they both knew: that no other man would ever feel like this inside her.

Carmen blinked up at him, her pupils blown wide with lust, her lower lip caught between her teeth. A drop of sweat rolled down her temple. She didn't look away. Didn't flinch. Just arched her back, letting him sink deeper as she whispered, "I love your cock." The admission was filthy, raw, utterly shameless—and Dan groaned.

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Carmen gasped, her nails raking down his back as he fucked her with renewed intensity, each stroke hitting that spot inside her that made her vision white out. She couldn't think—couldn't breathe—couldn't do anything but feel him, thick and unrelenting, filling her so full she swore she could taste him in the back of her throat.

"Please cum," Carmen grunted through clenched teeth, tears of satisfaction spilling down her cheeks. Her body was a live wire, every nerve ending alight with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. She didn't care if she sounded ****, didn't care if he knew just how badly she needed it—needed him to push her over the edge again. "Please, please—"

Dan’s rhythm stuttered—the first crack in his composure she’d witnessed all night. His breath came in ragged bursts against her neck, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to leave marks. Carmen whimpered as his cock twitched inside her, that thick, pulsing filling her even more.

"Say it again," he growled, his voice rough, barely recognizable.

Carmen's breath hitched—not from fear, but from the way his command vibrated through her ribs, settling low in her stomach like a live wire. His fingers tightened around her thigh, pressing bruises into flesh already marked from earlier. She could feel his cock twitch inside her, thick and impatient, demanding surrender before she even opened her mouth.

"Say it." His voice was darker and low—less request, more threat.

Carmen swallowed hard, her throat clicking around nothing. She'd said worse things in bed before—filthier things, crueler things—but this? This wasn't performative. Wasn't dirty talk meant to stroke some man's ego. This was—

Her body convulsed before she could finish the thought.

Carmen's spine arched violently off the mattress, her thighs clamping around Dan's waist like she could fuse their bodies together through sheer desperation. The orgasm hit her like a freight train—no buildup, no warning—just white-hot pleasure detonating every nerve ending at once. She couldn't scream. Couldn't breathe. Could only shudder beneath him, her cunt pulsing around his cock in frantic, rhythmic spasms.

Dan **** himself to cum then—not because he'd lost control, but because he wanted to. Wanted Carmen to know exactly when he'd chosen to mark her from the inside out with possessive intensity. His hips snapped forward one final time, his grip bruising on her hips as he emptied himself into her with a groan that sounded more like a growl. Hot. Thick. Relentless.

Carmen gasped at the sensation—the pulsing cum of him filling her, the way her body instinctively wanted him deeper even as her own orgasm still wracked her trembling limbs. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, blunt nails leaving crescent moons in sweat-slick skin as she rode out the aftershocks.

Dan didn’t pull out. Didn’t soften inside her. Just stayed, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath hot against her collarbone. She could feel his heartbeat through his cock—fast, uneven—and it thrilled her in ways she couldn’t name. The bastard had a pulse after all.

Carmen’s stomach twisted as realization crashed over her. She had never let anyone cum in her without wearing a condom—not once, not ever. Not even the ex she’d dated for two years, not the fling who’d begged her on his knees. It had been non-negotiable. A boundary. Until now. Until him. Until this moment, with his cum still dripping down her thighs, his fingers tangled possessively in her hair.

She knew she should've pushed him off. Should've scratched his damn eyes out for marking her up like some kind of trophy. But Carmen didn't. She pressed closer instead, her whole body buzzing with this twisted thrill that made her stomach flip. If Dan wanted to claim her—wanted her to be only his—fine. Hell, she'd let the bastard carve his initials into her skin if that's what he needed.

"You're big," she murmured against his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns down his sweat-slick skin. No condom. Just the relentless heat of his cum buried inside her. Carmen knew she should feel some shred of guilt—some flicker of disgust—but she didn't.

Dan exhaled—half-amused, half-something darker—before shifting his weight onto his elbows. "You noticed," he whispered, rolling his hips just enough to make her gasp. His cock twitched inside her, still half-hard despite the mess they'd made.

Carmen swallowed hard, her thighs tightening instinctively around his waist. His skin stuck to hers—sweat and cum and the faint tang of blood where she'd bitten him earlier. She didn't move. Didn't want to.

But she had to get her sister's stuff and get out of there.

Carmen pulled her dress over her head, the fabric sticking to her sweat-slick skin in places. She could still feel him inside her—the ache, the way her thighs trembled when she took a step. Her fingers hesitated on the zipper. "I'm going to have to pretend I hate you," she said, voice flat.

Dan leaned against the doorframe, watching her. A bruise bloomed on his collarbone where she'd bitten him. "You don't."

Carmen's fingers froze mid-zip. The dress clung to her ribs, the fabric still damp with sweat and something else. She could smell him on her skin. "Doesn't matter what I—"

His fingers caught the zipper she'd been struggling with, tugging it up in one smooth motion. The brush of his knuckles against her spine sent an involuntary shiver through her. "You'll be back here by Thursday."

Carmen scoffed, but the sound lacked its usual bite. The bastard wasn’t wrong. Already, she could feel the phantom pressure of him between her thighs, the betrayal of her own resolve.

She snatched up Lianne’s abandoned sweater from the floor—still smelling faintly of her sister’s vanilla perfume—and stuffed it violently into her bag. The fabric crumpled in her grip, soft and accusing.

"Tell me something," Carmen demanded suddenly, not turning around. Her voice scraped raw from moaning. "That redhead. Did she come back?"

Dan exhaled through his nose—half-laugh, half-sigh—and scratched the stubble along his jaw. "Twice."

Carmen's fingers twitched around the strap of her bag. The admission shouldn't have mattered. Shouldn't have slithered under her skin like a lit match dropped into gasoline. But it did. Her pulse jumped at the base of her throat.

"Good for her," Carmen lied through clenched teeth, adjusting the bag higher on her shoulder. The sweater inside smelled like Lianne's shampoo—like innocence and Sunday mornings and all the things Carmen had just obliterated against Dan's mattress. She turned toward the door, her thighs sticking together with every step.

Dan didn't move from the doorway. Just crossed his arms over his chest—still bare, still marked—and watched her with that infuriating half-smile. "Thursday," he repeated, like he was penciling it into some imaginary calendar. As if she'd already agreed. As if her body hadn't just signed a contract in cum and bite marks.