He couldn’t believe it. He’d stopped himself once he had his fingers inside her, snapped to his senses by the sound that had come from her mouth. She was sad. He saw it in the hollow of her cheeks; he heard it in the guttural wail she had let out when he touched her. He had stopped, fully prepared to leave, even if the blue balls might kill him. He refused to make her sadder. But she hadn’t wanted to be alone. She had wanted to be with him. Wanted to be beneath him. Wanted to be around him. He’d barely been able to hold back, but he was damn glad that he had. Because the way she finished him, took it all and swallowed and looked at him for approval afterwards — it made him feel like the motherfucking king. Rationally, he knew that she was fucking him because it was in her best interests. It was about survival. But she had liked it. He knew it even before she’d said it.
