He didn't speak, not at first. He simply held my hips captive against the cold wood edge and moved. Slowly. It was an agonizing, deliberate rhythm, deep, hot, and full. He would pull out almost entirely, letting the friction build, and then slam back into my deepest point, drawing a guttural, wounded sound from me every time.
My hands squeezed the counter's edge, my knuckles white, trying to anchor myself in the room, but the pleasure was already lifting me.
“Look at me, Samantha,” he finally grated out, the words tasting like metal and whiskey. His hips were pulling back, and then driving forward, each thrust a statement of ownership.
His left hand shot up, abandoning my thigh. His fingers twined into the hair at the back of my head, just above the nape of my neck, and yanked back, for
