I brace my hands against his chest, steadying myself, grounding myself, forcing my body to relax as I guide him further in, rocking against him, showing him exactly how I need this to go. “Slower Carter.”

I press my lips to his jaw, whispering against his skin. “You need to focus on a rhythm.”

He groans, head dropping forward, forehead pressing against my shoulder as he tries to breathe through it. He’s shaking, struggling. Trying to hold on.

Slowly, so carefully, like he’s terrified to hurt me, terrified to go too far—he thrusts. His hands grip my hips like they’re the only thing tethering him to reality. He’s so thick it borders on overwhelming, and he’s trying so fucking hard to stay in control. The way his fingers keep flexing like he’s reminding himself not to move too fast, not to come too quick, not to ruin it.

I lean in, lips brushing his ear, “Y-yes, just like that.”

That’s all it takes. His hips jerk, his breath leaves him in a broken, groan—fuck— He thrusts up into me again harder, driving himself so deep.

“Oh, fuck—Carter—”

He’s panting now, sweat beading at his temples, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut like he’s seconds from shattering.

I want to watch him break. Right. Under. Me.

I barely get the words out before he does it again, I can barely handle it. I claw at his chest, digging my nails into his skin, as I try to keep up with the way he’s finally, finally letting himself take what he wants. I’m not going to last. Not with Carter fucking me like this.

My fingers dig into the back of the couch, my nails pressing into the fabric, my body rocking forward with every single thrust, and I can’t, fuck, I can’t handle this.

I was supposed to be in control. I was supposed to take care of him, guide him, show him how to move, how to make this good for both of us.

His hands tighten on my hips, his grip almost bruising as he thrusts up into me, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room, the sharp, desperate noises ripping from his throat like he’s barely keeping himself together.

He’s trying to talk. Trying to tell me how good this feels, how much he loves the way I feel around him, how fucking perfect I am for him.

But all that comes out are broken moans, low grunts, sharp gasps between words he can’t quite form. “So… f-fucking perfect—”

His head falls back, his lips parting as another moan spills from him, his hips snapping up harder, deeper, hitting me exactly where I need him.

I moan, my fingers slipping against the couch, my body starting to tremble, pulling him in, dragging him deeper.