Out of Control

Katrina Colt stands before Derrick Pierce, her body taut with need. He grabs her wrist and yanks her close, mouth crushing hers in a kiss that steals her breath. She arches into him, nipples already tight, heat pooling between her thighs. His fingers work fast, stripping fabric away. Skin meets skin. He spins her, palm between her shoulder blades, and bends her over the edge of the bed. She feels him—thick, hard, pressing—before he drives in deep. A gasp rips from her throat. He fucks like he wants to own her, hips snapping, each thrust riding that thin line between pleasure and violence. Katrina claws at the sheets. He drags her upright, back to his chest, one hand around her throat, the other slipping down to circle her clit. She rocks back onto him, greedy, chasing the friction. He bites her shoulder, sucks a bruise that will last days. She climbs higher. Every muscle locks tight. When he slams her down onto her back, pushes her knees to her chest, and buries himself to the hilt, she shatters. The orgasm rips through her, raw and unstoppable. Derrick keeps pounding, chasing his own edge, jaw clenched, sweat sliding down his spine. Her second climax hits harder. She cries out, voice breaking. Derrick follows—spilling deep, hips stuttering, a low growl tearing from his chest. They stay locked like that, hearts hammering, breath ragged, bodies slick and spent.