HIS

We got home at midnight.

Kenny was fed well tonight. I felt it in the elevator, his hand gripping my waist too tight, his breathing heavier than usual, his eyes already burning full amber before we'd cleared the lobby. Three hours of visibility and dominance and carefully orchestrated attention, and now he was home, and all that power needed somewhere to go.

It always came to me.

The elevator doors closed, and he had me against the wall immediately. No preamble. No buildup. His mouth was hard on mine and his hands were already pulling at my dress, and I tasted the charge of his power on his tongue like something electric and alive.

"You were perfect tonight," he said against my mouth.

"I know," I said.

He pulled back and looked at me with those burning amber eyes and gripped my jaw and kissed me again deeper this time, and I felt it move all the way down my throat and settle between my thighs immediately. My body knew him. Had learned him. Responded to the charge of his power like a switch being flipped.

The elevator opened and he walked me backward into the penthouse without breaking contact.

He turned me around and unzipped my dress slowly. His lips followed the zipper down my spine, and I shivered at each press of his mouth against my bare skin. The dress pooled at my feet. He unhooked my bra and let it fall and cupped my breasts from behind and rolled my nipples between his fingers until I gasped and pressed back against him and felt how hard he already was against me.

"Look at the city," he said.

The floor-to-ceiling windows were right in front of us. New York is glittering and enormous and indifferent. Anyone in the buildings opposite could see us.

"Kenny"

"Look at it," he said, one hand still working my nipple, the other sliding down my stomach and straight into my underwear without warning.

His fingers found me immediately, and the sound I made was embarrassingly desperate. He stroked me slowly while the city watched, and I felt the exhibitionism of it move through me like something I should be ashamed of and wasn't.

"You're soaked," he said against my ear.

"Yes," I breathed.

"Who did this to you?"

"You. You did."

"Good girl."

He pushed two fingers inside me and curled them and I bent forward and gripped the window glass with both palms and moaned loudly into the penthouse. He worked me with his fingers deep and thorough, his thumb circling my clit, his other hand moving between my breasts and my throat and my hair, and I came against the window with the city watching, shaking and crying out and completely undone.

He didn't stop.

He pulled my underwear down and turned me around and pushed me onto the sectional and knelt between my thighs and buried his face between my legs before I'd finished shaking from the first orgasm.

He ate me like he owned every part of me. His tongue was flat and broad against my clit and then pointed and precise and then broad again, varying the pressure until I was writhing so hard he had to pin my hips to the sofa with both hands. He pushed his tongue inside me, and I screamed and grabbed his hair and ground myself against his face shamelessly.

"Don't stop," I begged. "Please don't stop, please don't stop."

He sucked my clit hard and slid three fingers into me simultaneously, and I came so hard I saw white, my whole body convulsing, my thighs clamped around his head, sounds coming out of my mouth that didn't sound like language.

He rose while I was still shaking and undressed, and I looked at him fully and felt my mouth go dry. He was built for exactly this. Broad and powerful and hard for me, his cock thick and already wet at the tip.

He gripped my ankles and pulled me to the edge of the sofa and pushed into me in one long, deep stroke, and I arched completely off the cushions.

"Oh god," I gasped. "Oh god, Kenny."

He didn't start slow. He fucked me hard from the first stroke, deep and relentless, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his amber eyes locked on my face, watching every expression. I felt every inch of him with every thrust, and I was so sensitive from coming twice already that the pleasure was almost unbearable.

He lifted my legs onto his shoulders, and the angle changed, and I cried out at the ceiling because at that depth I felt him everywhere.

"You're mine," he said. Low and certain and absolutely possessive.

"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, yours. "Only yours."

"Say my name."

"Kenny. Kenny. Kenny."

He drove into me harder, and I came again, clenching around him, my whole body shaking violently, and he followed with a sound that was half groan, half something purely animal, spilling inside me, his whole frame shuddering with the force of it.

We lay there afterward in the dark penthouse breathing hard. His weight is heavy on top of me. The city was still glittering through the glass behind him.

After a long time he said, "You always give me exactly what I need."

Not I love you. No, you were incredible.

You give me what I need.

I stared at the ceiling and felt the warmth of the sex cooling and thought about a quiet corridor and a man with still eyes who had said, "You don't have to perform right now."

I gave myself until morning to feel something about that.