Eli
Ronan is inventive in the way storms are. Whatever the room offers, he turns into a weapon, a stage, a lesson.
Against the wall first. My spine thuds against the logs hard enough that dust shakes loose, his mouth crushing mine. His hand locks around my throat, cutting me down to the sound of my own pulse under his grip. “Breathe,” he growls, and I do, shoving air past his palm, the burn of it as sharp as the ache in my chest. Tasting obedience and oxygen at the same time.
He lifts me like I’m nothing. My legs clamp over his hips, the wide muscle of them grinding between my thighs. His c**k drives up into me, brutal, blunt, unstoppable.
I’m slick already, my body won’t stop producing while my Alpha needs me, and it gushes more with every thrust, spilling down my ass, painting his s
