Maisie
Mercer shifted again, holding me higher by my ass while he drove into me in the unpredictable rhythm he'd been taking me with all night. Three inches deep. He slid out to the tip. Six inches deep. Out. Two inches deep. Out. Seven inches. Three out. Eight. Expand. Nine.
They were so good at this. So good at driving you straight into oblivion and keeping you there, dangling on that edge for hours, begging like an animal in heat.
"Please," I whimpered against his neck. "M-Mercer, please let me–"
I broke off with a moan as he slammed up into me, bottoming out so deep I felt him in my very soul.
This was why.
Because once you got rutted, once they showed you what it felt like to want and be wanted like this–claimed, devoured, owned–everything else felt inferior. A pale, pathetic imitation.
And then, you didn't just want to be fucked anymore. You wanted a piece of their souls entangled with yours. You ached and yearned for it.
