Too Much

SLOANE

He reached down, positioning himself at my entrance. He started to push inside—slow, so slow, so careful. The stretch was immediate and intense, a sharp, burning ache that made every muscle in my lower body clench instinctively.

“Easy,” he soothed, freezing mid-motion. “Breathe with me, Sloane. Just breathe. Relax for me. Let me in.”

I forced air into my lungs, consciously unclenching. He pushed forward again—a fraction of an inch at a time. The burn stayed, but it began to shift, blending into a deep, full pressure that was starting to feel… different. Not good yet. Just… different.

He watched my face the whole time, eyes dark with focus and worry. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” I gasped. “Keep going.”

He did. Inexorably. Filling me inch by agonizing inch until I felt split open, stretched beyond what seemed possible. Tears pricked my eyes—not from pain exactly, but from the sheer, staggering *fullness* of it. Too much sensation. Too much of *him*.

Finally he bottomed out, hips flush to mine. He stopped. Gave me time. I could feel every thick, throbbing inch buried inside me, a deep, possessive presence that was both terrifying and strangely grounding.

“God, you’re tight,” he groaned, voice strained, forehead pressed to mine. “You feel… fuck. You feel incredible.”

He started to move then—slow, shallow rocks of his hips. The water made everything fluid, effortless. Each stroke sent fresh waves of pleasure-pain through me; the initial burn slowly giving way to a heavy, building ache that was starting to feel dangerously good.

I held on—legs locked around his waist, face buried in his neck—as he found a rhythm. Deep. Steady. The water splashed softly around us, a gentle counterpoint to the growing tension coiling low in my belly.

He shifted angle slightly and—*oh God*—hit something inside me that made white light explode behind my eyes. A sharp, electric jolt of pure pleasure. I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.

“There?” he growled.

“Right there,” I gasped. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He targeted that spot again and again, strokes growing harder, faster. The pleasure built relentlessly—a rising tide I couldn’t outrun. I was mindless, lost to it, world narrowed to the heat of his body, the stretch of him inside me, the sound of his harsh breathing against my ear.

“Chase,” I sobbed, “I’m… I’m close…”

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, voice raw. “Let me feel you. Come all over my cock.”

His words—combined with one particularly deep, grinding thrust—shattered me. My orgasm ripped through me, more powerful than anything before. I screamed his name, body convulsing, inner walls clamping down around him as wave after punishing wave crashed over me. I felt a sudden hot gush—shocking, uncontrollable—and realized with dazed horror that I was squirting. I’d never done that. Never even thought it was possible.

He groaned, rhythm faltering as my release pulsed around him. “Fuck, Sloane. That’s it. That’s it, baby. So fucking hot.”

He held me through it, strokes slowing as I came down, trembling and boneless in his arms. When the aftershocks faded he kissed me—deep, possessive, tasting of triumph.

Then he carried me out of the pool. Back through the glass door. Wet footprints across the teak. He didn’t take me to the couch. He laid me on the thick area rug in front of the glass wall, water still clinging to my skin, making me glisten under the soft light.

He knelt between my thighs. Pushed my legs wide. Looked down at me—eyes black with hunger.

“I need you again,” he said, voice gravel-rough. “I need to feel you come around me again.”

He entered me in one long, steady thrust—no hesitation this time. No pain. Just deep, satisfying stretch as he filled me completely. He braced his hands on either side of my head and started to move—and this time there was nothing slow or careful about it.

He fucked me.

Hard. Deep. Relentless.

The sound of our bodies colliding echoed in the quiet room—wet, rhythmic *slap-slap-slap* mingling with my broken cries and his guttural groans. He was a machine—perfect, powerful athlete using every ounce of strength and control to drive me out of my mind.

He angled his hips, hitting that spot with devastating accuracy on every stroke. The pleasure was almost too much—sharp, intense ecstasy that bordered on pain. I was sobbing, tears streaming, throat raw from screaming.

“Chase—I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can take it,” he grunted, pace never faltering. “You were made for this. Made for me. Come on, Sloane. Give me one more. One more for me.”

He powered into me—hips a blur—each thrust a deep, punishing slam that stretched me wide and punched against my cervix with dizzying, aching pleasure. The rug beneath us soaked through. The air thick with sex and chlorine. My legs locked around his waist, ankles crossed, holding him even as part of me screamed it was too much.

Time blurred. The world shrank to this room, this man, this thick punishing length pistoning into me. My orgasms came one after another—no longer separate but a continuous rolling convulsion. I was a sobbing, writhing wreck—tears, sweat, slick everywhere. Every nerve ending fried, overstimulated to the point of agony. The pleasure had become torture—sweet, unbearable torment I couldn’t escape.

He was still hard. Still thick. Still driving into me with the same ruthless rhythm.

I couldn’t take another second.

With desperate strength I shoved at his chest. “Stop! Stop!” My voice cracked—hoarse, broken. “Please, Chase—I can’t! No more!”

He faltered—hips stilling—cock buried deep. He looked down at me, chest heaving, eyes wild with lust and confusion.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t,” I sobbed, trying to push him away again. “It’s too much. Please get off me.”

He stayed frozen a heartbeat longer—then slowly, carefully withdrew, leaving me achingly empty. He knelt between my legs, erection still jutting out—thick, angry, glistening.

“I haven’t come yet,” he said, voice rough with frustration.

I stared at him—body trembling, mind blank. A choked, incredulous laugh escaped me. “You want to kill me,” I finally gasped.

A slow, wicked chuckle rumbled in his chest. He leaned down—bracing hands on either side of my head—face inches from mine.

“Not kill you,” he murmured, voice low dangerous purr. “Just fuck you.”

He lowered his head—lips brushing my ear—breath hot and ragged.

“Just fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Until all you know is me.”