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He pushes deeper, and I have to open wider. My jaw is already starting to ache from the effort, but we’re a long way from finished.
Another inch. Then another. My lips burn. I can feel every ridge and vein, the heat of him against my tongue.
I try to breathe through my nose and relax my throat the way I’ve read about in romance novels, but truth be told, I’m struggling.
He’s only halfway in and I already feel too full, like there’s no room for anything else—not air, not thought, nothing but him. My fingers dig into his thigh and I whimper.
I’m mortified to show my inexperience—until something happens: Lukas’s other hand comes up to cup my cheek.
His thumb brushes away a tear that’s escaped down my face. The gesture is almost tender, if a man like him is even capable of a thing like that. It’s as if he’s acknowledging the difficulty of what he’s asking and appreciating the effort I’m making to please him.
Then he pushes deeper still.
A small, involuntary sound escapes me, half-gag, half-moan. My throat spasms, trying to adjust and accept what feels biologically impossible.
I’m stuck. I cannot do any more. There’s no way, no how; it just isn’t happening.
The whole moment feels like that, actually. It’s not just my throat that’s lingering on a precipice—it’s him, it’s me, it’s this car, this night, all of us. We can’t go any farther. We shouldn’t. It’s a very bad idea.
… Until, with a grunt, Lukas bashes right through that glass ceiling.
His grip in my hair tightens to the point of pain, fingers twisting,pulling, and suddenly, the careful exploration is over. His hips shift forward on the seat.
He’s not letting me set the pace anymore.
He’s taking over.
His hand moves my head back, then forward, back, then forward, setting a pace that has nothing to do with what I can handle and everything to do with whatheneeds.
He’s fucking my mouth.
My hands fly up to hold onto his thighs as I try to anchor myself against the onslaught. Saliva pools at the corners of my mouth, fresh tears shine on my cheeks, both spilling over, dripping down my chin in warm rivulets.
I should be mortified. Why am I not stopping him? I’m a person and not just a warm, willing hole for him to use!
But how can I do that, when I’m so turned on I can hardly think straight? It’s all I can do to moan around him like the absolute disaster I am.
The ice king melts when you submit to him.
Who knew?
The next thrust hits the back of my throat and my body rebels. I gag, hard and violent, my entire torso convulsing with the instinctive need toreject. My hands push against his thighs to create distance. His penis is so big that it feels like it’s splitting me open from the inside.
But his hand holds me in place. “You can do it,” he says. “Breathe through your nose.”
My throat spasms around him, muscles clenching and releasing in waves I can’t control. More tears stream down my face, hot and humiliating, mixing with the saliva already coating my chin. But I force myself to go limp, to surrender, to let him have this.
He pushes deeper.
I feel him slide past that barrier as my throat stretches to accommodate something it was never designed to take. The sensation is overwhelming: fullness and pressure and the burning need for air clawing at my lungs.
This is what he meant.
Lukas told me that he and he alone could see the secret part of me that wants someone else to do the taking. I thought he was full of it. Of course he was, right? He was a sick control freak, projecting his own twisted desires onto me, seeing what he wanted to see.
But as it turns out, he wasn’t wrong.
Because right now, with my jaw aching and my throat burning and tears streaming down my face, I feel more powerful than I ever have in my life.
