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She can come from this, you're sure of it.
You can see the way it affects her, to dress the part, to wear her cock, to sink between your legs, powerful, taking.
You love the way she fucks you. She is soft curves over so much cruel strength, but she is nosing gently along your jaw, she is kissing promises to your neck and shivering, even while she plants herself so roughly inside of you, again and again. You say her name and cup her cheek while she does it to you, while she thinks that she is taking, and she looks into your eyes and waits to hear.
This is how you know that you are not the one being penetrated. That she can only give. This is how you know to make her come.
When she does, it's from the way you talk to her. It gets right in her head. It makes her want to work you up and be filled with the words it makes you say, by the breathless way you say them as she fills you up in turn.
Right there, Vil, you feel so good right there. Fuck, it’s all yours. I’m yours.
The feedback cycles between you, spiralling -- Your voice in her ear, the force of her hips, your teeth on her neck. Her hand between your legs, rubbing hard, until you’re gasping her name. Absurdly, she’s the one to tell you that she’s close. So you tell her all the things she wants to hear.
I want you to come with me, okay? Can you do that for me? Show me how good you are. I want to feel it. I want to feel you after you’re gone. Yea, just like that.
She gives you everything. When did she become so devout? Her head falls into the crook of your neck but you catch her, you turn her lips against your own, you make her look at you while you say it -- those two words of endearment that empty out her lungs in one desperate whine, always with the same shock at hearing it, at the fact that you tell her, that you might really think it.
Good girl, you’re such a good girl.
She comes from it, deep inside you, huffing your name against your lips, knuckles white as she squeezes the flesh of your hips to pin you down. It makes you come undone, too -- it makes you clench so hard that she can't thrust into you, she has to stay planted and feel you bucking beneath her, what little you can with her strap in your guts.
You don’t remember the words you say just then. She will never forget them.
Afterward, she looks at you in shock, her eyes wide with awe. With fear. Like she's never been in this much trouble. You don't reassure her. You're trouble. It feels good to be the one to take her apart. You think that you deserve this power. Your silence. Your indifference.
It lasts until she kisses you. You hate that she does it so sweetly. You hate that you do it right back, that you keep doing it, kissing slowly to prolong the feeling of her weight between your legs.
You want to hum into this kiss, you want to say something funny for her, concede your affection and draw a line around the space you share. And also you don't, you don't want that at all -- it panics you, it offends. You are not the one being penetrated.
You get your way. She peels herself off of you, awkwardly, leaving you empty, sitting back on her haunches, one foot on the ground as she makes to get up.
You say her name, and that’s all it takes. She lets you pull her back into bed, into the two of you.
You get your way again.