Friends

Chapter 61

A/N: The Book is FINISHED! Read the entirety of it on my Patreon along with other exclusive content if you want to check those out!

Jasmine's POV:

I've never seen this side of Marc.

It's like his entire demeanor has changed. Gone is the soft, gentle man who always treated me like I might break if he touched me too hard. This? This is something else entirely. Something carnal. Intense. Raw.

Even when we made out in the car that night—when things got heated and wild—he still held back. He still touched me like I was something to be cherished.

But now?

Now he's choking me like he has no problem breaking me in half. The look in his eyes says he's been waiting for permission to unleash this version of himself and finally got the green light. His grip is firmer. His touch, more demanding. His strength, squeezing the side of my neck, strong enough to invite me to put up a fight and get out but not let me escape. This is the first time he's ever been on top of me. I can see him looking down on me. He pays attention to every detail with his gaze. His eyes never leave mine as if he's constantly analyzing my reactions to make sure he doesn't hurt me. There's a fire in his eyes I've never seen before. It takes me off guard—but in the best way.

It's sexy. It's overwhelming. And it's everything I've secretly craved.

He is fully here. Present. Focused. Like every inch of me matters.

Part of me wants to ask him when this side of him was born. If he's been hiding it all this time. But the other part of me—the louder part—is just begging him not to stop.

Because whatever this is, whatever has taken over him—I want more.

His lips are on my throat, his hands everywhere at once, and I feel myself unraveling under every touch, every squeeze, every whisper of breath against my skin.

Marc has always made me feel safe.

But right now?

He's making me feel wanted. Desired. Possessed.

And I've never wanted anything more.

Suddenly, I feel his grip release. Immediately I gasp for air.

"We're going to play a game."

A game? What game?

"Spit in your hands and start stroking my dick," he demands.

I was already stroking his dick. I'm confused.

"The game is simple. I choke you while you stroke my dick. If I cum first, you win. If you lose consciousness first, then I win," he says, with a devious smirk.

I'm intrigued. I've never had competition in the bedroom before.

It catches me off guard—but in the most delicious way. My heart kicks up, a mix of surprise, curiosity, and something hotter pooling low in my belly. The idea of turning pleasure into a challenge? Of testing our limits together? It's new. It's reckless. It's addictive.

And the fact that he's confident enough to throw it down like this?

It's turning me on more than I expected.

"What do I get if I win?" I ask, eyes narrowing with playful defiance.

He stands up, slipping off his pants, giving me full, unobstructed access to him—and for the first time, I really take him in. I've seen glimpses, felt it hard against me through our clothes or under my fingers, but now? It's different. It's real. And it's intimidating.

My eyes can't look away. There's one prominent vein running along the center from the base, slightly curving left—mirroring the way his whole shaft curves, just enough to make me imagine what that pressure would feel like inside me. There's a natural upward tilt too, like it's already reaching for me.

It's darker than the rest of his skin—smooth, flushed with heat—and the tip holds a soft, unexpected pink hue. It's beautiful, in a rugged, unapologetic kind of way. Thick, especially near the base—about as wide as a 12 oz Red Bull can—and then gradually tapering toward the head. Seven inches of want. Seven inches of something I've only fantasized about but never truly had.

And the way he stands there, watching me stare, like he knows exactly the effect he's having on me? That confidence is lethal.

"If you win, I won't edge you till you cry. I'll only edge you till you beg me to stop," he says with a slight evil chuckle.

"Why didn't you just say that while you were choking me?" I ask.

"I don't want any excuses for when you lose. So, I'm making sure we start at the same time and you have complete access to my dick just so you can use two hands or your best technique."

He's really confident that he's going to win. The confidence turns me on yet makes me even more excited to win.

He mounts me again. I take off my shirt, I spit in my hands, having one hand trace his tip while the other circles his base. He wraps his left hand around my neck, firmly gripping the outside.

"You remember the safety words?" he asks.

"Yes, I do," I answer.

Immediately, I feel a light yet swift slap across my cheek.

It startles me more than it hurts—just enough force to jolt me, to remind me who's in charge, but not nearly enough to leave a mark. It's calculated. Controlled. Like everything he does. Even when he's punishing me, Marc is intentional.

And somehow, that makes it hotter.

He's not doing it out of anger. He's not reckless. He's reading my body, studying my reactions, pushing me just far enough to thrill me without crossing a line. And that realization—that even in domination, he's still protecting me—it sends a shock of heat straight through my core.

"Yes, what?" he asks, eyes gleaming with dark anticipation.

"Yes, daddy," I correct myself.

"Good girl. Make the same mistake again, and the next slap gets harder. Remember if you can't use safety words, but want me to stop, repeatedly squeeze my arms, Now begin," he says with a smile.