Our gazes lock and something dangerous yet vulnerable passes between us. Carefully, I extract his fingers despite his needy whine and smooth the latex over my aching length, then slick myself up. I want to wreck this man in the most profound ways imaginable, but uncertainty flickers in my chest. This step . . . having sex with him . . . My heart beats wildly. It’ll be more than just physical. "We can stop. We don't have to—" "I need this." The confession rips its way free because this man owns me as irrevocably as I own him.
