I might be doomed

Sienna

I hated how much I needed him.

That smug mouth. That stupid calm. The way he looked at me like he already owned me. And worse—how my body kept proving him right.

His fingers dragged inside me again, slow and deep, and I whimpered before I could catch it. Loud, pathetic, soaked. Every time I tried to close my legs, his hand just flexed, palm pressing against that sensitive bundle of nerves like he’d mapped me already.

“You’re dripping,” he muttered, kissing the corner of my mouth. “You gonna come already, just from my fingers?”

“Fuck you,” I breathed, except it came out broken and needy.

He laughed—low and warm and fucking dangerous. “Not yet.”

He pulled his hand back, and I almost collapsed. My hips jerked, trying to chase him, but he held me still with that iron grip on my ass, like he already knew how bad I wanted more.

My heart slammed in my chest. My thighs were soaked. I hated this.

I hated how much I wanted him to ruin me.

Then he grabbed the hem of my hoodie and dragged it over my head in one smooth motion. I should’ve protested. I didn’t. I let him see bare me, topless and trembling, my nipples tight and aching under his gaze.

His eyes were fire—slow, burning, wicked. “You’re a fucking problem, you know that?” he said, almost to himself. “That mouth of yours. That fucking attitude. But your body’s so damn honest.”

He shoved his hand between my legs again, sliding my panties to the side with one rough motion. Two fingers pushed into me this time, deeper, thicker, and I cried out—head falling forward onto his shoulder.

“Louder,” he growled, fucking me slow and deep with his fingers. “Let me hear how much you hate this.”

I moaned—long and filthy—because I couldn’t do anything else. My body didn’t give a fuck what my brain was screaming.

“You like my fingers, firecracker? You want my cock next? Or are you gonna lie again and say you don’t like me?”

“You’re such an asshole,” I gasped, rocking against him, hips grinding for friction like I didn’t care anymore.

He caught my chin, made me look him dead in the eyes. “And you’re such a fucking liar. Say it.”

I bit my lip, shaking.

“Say it,” he repeated, voice dropping like thunder. “You want me to fuck you.”

I snapped.

“Fuck me,” I hissed, shoving against him. “Adrian, please—fuck me now.”

That got him.

He moved like a man possessed, lifting me off his lap, spinning me around, bending me over the damn couch like he’d waited all week for this. I barely had time to catch my breath before I heard his belt unbuckle, pants hit the floor, and then—his cock pressed against my soaked, pulsing pussy, thick and hard and already leaking.

“Adrian—” I started, but he slammed into me.

My scream echoed off the walls. There was no prep. No mercy. Just thick, deep, perfect stretch. He filled me like he had a right to, like this was his body to take. I clutched at the cushions, face hot, breath gone.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned behind me. “You feel like heaven. So tight—so fucking wet for me.”

His hands bruised my hips as he snapped into me again, and again, each thrust shaking through me like a warning and a promise.

I should’ve told him to slow down.

I should’ve begged him to stop.

But all that came out of my mouth were broken moans and filthy whimpers.

My legs were shaking.

My thighs were soaked.

I hated him—I did—but I wanted to live in this. In this heat. In this madness.

He leaned over me, his mouth brushing my ear. “Still wanna run?” he whispered. “Still think you don’t like me, when your pussy’s squeezing me like this?”

I sobbed out a moan, lost in it. “You’re insane.”

“You like insane.” He reached around and slapped my clit, just once, hard enough to make me cry out. 

I clenched down around him. He groaned—deep, guttural—and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back.

“You want me to come inside you, firecracker?” he said, voice rough with need. “You want me to fill this pretty cunt and watch it drip?”

“Adrian—fuck—don’t stop—”

He pounded into me harder. Brutal. Deep. My whole body was bouncing off the couch, moaning loud enough that the neighbors could hear if they gave a damn.

Then his hand found my throat—just resting there, not choking, just reminding me. He owned me. Right here. Right now.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, breath hot against my cheek. “You gonna cream all over my cock like a good little mess?”

“Yes—please—please—”

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I cried, back arching, legs trembling. “Adrian—I’m fucking yours—”

That was all it took.

My orgasm hit like fire—violent, shattering. I screamed his name, no shame, no filter, my whole body pulsing around him as he fucked me through it.

He cursed behind me, his thrusts growing rougher, faster, until he shoved in deep and held—grinding against me, cock twitching as he filled me with hot, thick release.

I collapsed forward onto the couch, gasping, boneless, wrecked.

He didn’t move right away.

Just leaned over me, lips brushing the sweat-damp skin of my back, his breath slowing against me.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, softer this time.

He didn’t move right away. Just leaned over me, lips brushing the sweat-damp skin of my back, his breath slowing against me.

My brain was trying to tell me something—but I couldn’t think.  Not with the weight of his chest pressing into my back and the heat of his breath in my ear.

“What are we gonna do,” he murmured, voice thick and spent, “if I keep wanting you every damn day?”

The words sank into my skin deeper than his cock had. And I stayed quiet, because I didn’t have an answer. Or maybe I did—but I was too fucked-out to admit that my brain is considering seeing him everyday for this.