It didn’t hit all at once.

One stroke. Then another. Then he hit his cock deep into her - and there was a button that he was pressing that made her cling to him, tight and trembling, her breath falling apart beneath his mouth.

John gripped her hips with a quiet ferocity, his control hanging by the thinnest thread. He felt every inch of her around him, soft wet heat drawing him deeper until he wasn’t sure where he ended and she began.

Her body was so perfect. Like she’d been carved to fit him. Like his cock belonged right there inside her pussy, and her scent belonged in his lungs.

He moved slowly, but the pressure inside him had begun to coil.

Tighter. Hotter. Meaner.

He moaned into her neck, the sound muffled but raw. She answered with a whimper that turned into a gasp, as he thrust his hips harder, and her nails slid down his back, knowing what he was about to do, carving her name into his skin .

And then she said it.

“Don’t stop baby”

And then she said it again. "Don't stop baby, cum for me. Cum for me"

It broke something in him.

He fucked her deeper, harder, every stroke a confession. His lips found her jaw, her throat, her shoulder.

She arched into him. Wrapped her legs around his waist. Pulled him in until he wasn’t just inside her body—he felt inside her whole soul.

And then he came, seized by a wave he couldn’t swim against. Her pussy pulsated an invitation so feral it was coded as primal. His body could not control the tidal wave of pressure bursting through his cock. She felt him push her buttons and locked her heels into the back of his thighs, begging him to bury his cock as deep as she could take him as he gushed.

And then he came, and came, and came and came.

He groaned her name, long and guttural, forehead pressed to hers as he gave her every drop. Everything.

They didn’t stop.

Even after the first wave left her shaking, legs trembling, eyes glassy with the aftermath—John kept going.

His mouth moved back up her body like a man tracing sacred ground, tasting her skin with the same reverence he’d give an answered prayer. He kissed her ribs, her sternum, the curve just under her breast—the places men forgot, only someone devoted would remember.

He slid two fingers inside her, slow and deep, his other hand holding her hip steady. But it wasn’t just the thrust—it was the curl. The way he coaxed her open with such practiced control it felt like spellwork. Like he was conjuring her pleasure straight from the core.

“John,” she gasped, hips bucking, her voice all honey and disbelief.

He groaned against her neck, hot and low. “That’s it. Let me feel that again.”

And she did.

She gave it to him.

Her body rolled beneath him, hips moving with instinct, the sound of wet heat echoing beneath the music. His fingers stroked her pussy with unrelenting rhythm, curling just right, the pads of his fingers dragging across the rough spot that made her knees fly up, her thighs clamp around his wrist.

“Right there,” she moaned. “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

She was soaking his hand, soaking her sheets, slick wetness pouring out of her, and he loved it—he loved that he was the reason she was making a mess, the way her body responded, the pressure building like a storm behind her eyes.

He whispered in her ear while he worked her through it.

“You know what you do to me? You know how good this pussy is?”

Candy couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

She just broke.

With a shuddering cry, her whole body spasmed, hips lifting off the bed, walls clenching down on his fingers like she never wanted to let him go. And then—

The flood came.

A gush. Wet. Primal. Raw.

John swore under his breath.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, still moving his hand as her body pulsed and shivered and seized around him. “You just squirted for me.”

She blinked through the haze, stunned, soaking the sheets beneath her, the red light casting her in shadows and shine.

He kissed her hard, fingers still inside, but slowing now.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, legs still spread, bare, marked, and claimed.

“You’re a fucking magician,” she whispered.

He smiled against her cheek.

“Nah,” he said, “You’re just magic.”

John, the gorgeous man that he is, didn’t stop whispering to her, praising her, telling her how good she was, how fucking perfect she felt beneath him.

And when she finally opened her eyes, she reached for him.

And flipped their positions.

Now she was on top.

And he was at her mercy.

She smirked, slow, knowing, and dangerous, as she dragged her hands down his stomach, her fingers brushing the trail of hair that led lower.

John exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening, his abs flexing as she teased her way down.

“Just lay back, babe ” she murmured, lips grazing his skin, sending shocks of heat straight through him.

He let out a low curse, his fingers gripping the sheets, because fuck, she knew exactly what she was doing.

She wanted to wreck him right back.

She took her time, watching his face, reading every reaction, teasing the little constellation of very sensitive points on the underside of his cock with slow flicks of her tongue, with soft bites, deep, slow pressure, until his entire body was tight and aching.

John’s hands moved into her hair, gripping, needing, but she stayed in control, keeping him right at the edge, right at her mercy, making him beg without words.

It was slow and unbearable and perfect.

By the time she finally pulled herself back up to kiss him, his breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling in heavy, needy exhales.

He flipped her back onto the bed, settling between her legs.

And then—he kissed her, deep and slow and wrecked, because she had just ruined him completely.

He ran his hands down her sides, smoothing his palms over her soft skin, over the curve of her stomach, feeling every inch of that beautiful thin skin of her pussy.

Candy let out a breathless laugh, still panting, moaning, and floating.

John trailed his mouth down her neck between kisses, his lips against her skin, against her pulse.

She shivered.