He bent me forward. I put my hands out and settled into them as he continued to slam inside and my climax slowly drifted away from me.

I felt his hands at my hips slide up to my ribs to hold me steady as he kept driving deep, faster, rougher, oh God, so good.

“This what you need, baby?” I asked, my words hitching with his thrusts.

“Yeah,” he grunted, one hand remaining at my ribs while his other moved up to curl around my shoulder, yanking me back as he pounded into me.

“Take it, honey,” I purred.

“Fuck, Lilah.”

Faster. Rougher.

Oh yeah.

“Take it,” I urged.

“Fuck,” he grunted.

His hand at my shoulder moved to grasp my hair. He tugged back. I let him, squeezing him tight inside me. He bucked, thrusting, groaning, his fingers digging into my ribs as he came hard, long, and violently inside me, jarring my body, laying claim to me.

I was a biker bitch. I was a biker’s daughter. I’d grown up with pretty much anything goes with my father (though, he wasn’t a loser, when I was younger, he shielded me from anything that might freak me, it was just that when I got older, that “anything” became a shorter list).

But I was not easy.

I’d once had a one-night stand and didn’t much like how it made me feel, mostly because I hadn’t actually thought it was a one-night stand until the guy left my bed with one word: “Gratitude.” Then he left and didn’t ask for my number.

I thought that made him a serious dick and it didn’t feel great that I’d chosen to let him into my bed.

But it was safe to say, at that moment, Abel still buried deep, his hand gripping my hair, I had no remorse.

None.

Not even a little bit.

I was spent because I came harder than I had in my whole life. So I pulled at my hair to communicate I needed him to let me go so I could drop to my forearms.

His grip didn’t lighten even as his voice was gruff but gentle when he said, “Need you up, baby.”

“Okay.”

“Bear with me,” he murmured.

“Okay, honey.”

“Fuck. Sweet,” he whispered, then slid out.

The loss of his massive cock was like losing a part of me, a part I needed, and so I whimpered.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Sweet.”

I stayed up on my hands even when he untangled his fingers from my hair.

Then I felt his hand between my legs. I was dripping—with him, with me—but not for long.

This was because he coated me with us, down the insides of my thighs, over my ass, between its cleft, up over my sex, to my belly, up, up, deep up, to between my breasts, his chest against my ass to give his long arm access.