Page 64 of Animal Tamer
She is spread open on my bed, and she cannot touch me. Not if she wanted to. Not if she forgot. Not even by accident.
The scream that lives under my skin is silent. For the first time in my life, standing this close to another body, it has nothing to say.
“You're shaking,” she whispers.
“I'm about to come in my jeans like a teenager. Give me a second.”
She laughs—breathless, delighted—and the laugh turns into a moan when I kneel onto the bunk between her bound thighs.
I don't undress. I want to. Someday I'll show her all of it, every scar, every line he left and every line I put over them—but not now, not in this moment, because now belongs to her, and I won't let him into this bed even as history. I open my belt, my jeans, and pull my cock out, and I'm so hard the ink stands out stark along the shaft.
I line myself up against her heat and stop.
“Wren.” I'm frozen in place. “I don't have—there's no condom. I've never needed?—”
“It's okay.” Her eyes are steady on mine, dark and sure. “You haven’t been with anyone. I haven't been with anyone in over two years. And I'm on the pill—for cramps, but it counts.” A shaky smile. “There's nothing between us that needs a barrier. Not this. Not anything.”
Nothing between us.
I push inside her.
The sound I make isn't human. She's tight and scalding andsoft, softer than anything, and I sink into her one slow inch at a time while she moans beneath me, chained open, unable to do anything but take me, and my vision blurs at the edges. Thirty-five years old, and I'm inside someone voluntarily for the first time in my life, and it's her, and she's wearing chains because she wanted to give my broken skin safety.
“You feel—” I bottom out and have to stop, forehead hanging over her, careful not to let it drop. “Fuck.You're wrapped around me like you were built for it. Like this pussy was waiting for me.”
“Rowe—”
“You can't touch me.” I draw back and drive in, and the chains sing against each other, and she cries out. “Can't grab. Can't hold. All you can do is lie there and get fucked, isn't that right? Lie there and be mine to use.”
“Yes.” Her head presses back into the pillow, throat arched. “Yes, use me, please?—”
I stop being careful about the words after that. I fuck her and I talk, filthy things I didn't know lived in me, how she looks stuffed full of my cock, how her tits shake with every thrust, how I'm going to keep her chained up and drippingevery night from here to the next town and the town after that. She sobs my name. The bunk frame knocks against the wall. The padlocks chime against each other in rhythm, a sound I will hear in my dreams for the rest of my life.
I can feel her inner walls tightening around my dick, wanting to choke the cum right out of me.
“Come.” It comes out as a command, guttural. “Come on my cock, Wren. Soak me. Let me feel it.”
She shatters.
Her whole body seizes inside the chains, thighs straining against the links, and her pussy clamps down on me in rippling waves while she wails at the ceiling, and the flood of her drenches my thighs, my jeans, everything—and I let go.
I come inside her, and it tears through me like nothing I've ever felt with my own hand, pulse after pulse, grinding deep to give her every drop, chanting her name like the prayer it's become.
I don't pull out.
I pullback, slow, just far enough to watch, and there it is—my cum leaking out around my shaft, pearling at her stretched entrance, dripping down toward the sheets—and I rock forward and push it back into her.
“Look at that,” I rasp. “Look at what I put in you.”
“Rowe—” She's twitching with aftershocks, over-sensitive, moaning at every slow drag.
“I'm not done.” Because I'm not. I should be softening and I'm not, still hard inside her, twenty years of starvation deciding today is when the bill gets paid. “You're going to take me again, and I'm going to fuck it all back in so deep it stays. You want that? Want to walk around later with me still inside you, sitting at breakfast with my family, full of me, and nobody knows but us?”
The picture does it. Her eyes roll back, and she comes again, just from the words and the slow grind, and I ride her through it, and then I stop holding back.
I fuck her for long minutes—unhurried this time, deep, the chains shifting and singing, her moans gone slurred and drunk—until the heat builds up my spine a second time and I bury myself to the root and flood her again, groaning into the air an inch above her collarbone.
Silence. Two heartbeats hammering.
