Finger work

James froze. His chest pressed flush against my back, his breath stuttering against my shoulder blade. "Fuck," he growled, voice cracking on the syllable. His finger flexed inside me, testing the clench of my muscles around him. "Like a bloody vice." He sounded almost offended, as if my body had personally betrayed him by being this tight. His thumb found my clit again, rubbing in time with the shallow thrusts of his finger. "Christ, you're going to ruin me."

The stretch burned—not painfully, but conspicuously, like the ache of muscles after a long match. His finger curled, dragging against my inner walls with rough expertise. A strangled noise escaped my throat when his palm ground against my clit with each inward stroke. "Shh," he murmured against my ear, though no one was home to hear. His teeth grazed my earlobe. "You take it so pretty." The praise dripped like honey, thick and cloying.

His other hand slid from my breast to my hip, fingers splaying possessively over the lace marks. "Feel that?" He pressed deeper, the heel of his hand rocking against me. "How you pulse around me?" The words weren't just dirty talk—they were awe, the kind reserved for sacred relics. His breath hitched when I clenched deliberately. "Fucking hell." His free hand fumbled with his belt buckle, the metallic clink obscene in the quiet room.

The window reflected his shaking hands—the way his knuckles whitened as he shoved his trousers down just enough to free himself. He didn't guide me to turn around, didn't flip me onto the desk. Just kept his finger buried inside me as his thick cock slotted against the cleft of my ass, hot and velvety. "This what you wanted?" His lips found the tendon in my neck, biting just shy of breaking skin. "All those fucking pictures?" Every word vibrated through me.

His finger crooked sharply, pressing up into that spongy spot that made my knees wobble. The sudden burst of pleasure blurred my vision—but he didn't let up, just worked me in slow, torturous circles while his cockhead smeared precome down my spine. "Answer," he growled, twisting his wrist to drag his knuckle against my front wall. "Mouth first? Or straight into this greedy little cunt?" The vulgarity shouldn't have shocked me—not after hours of sexting—but hearing it in his proper baritone, laced with that hint of desperation, sent a fresh gush between his fingers.