Friends

Chapter 67

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:

What the fuck.

I've never felt so full. It's intense.

It's like he was made for me—but somehow, even more than that. Like he was built to stretch me, claim me, ruin me.

He's so deep, so thick, I can barely breathe. Every inch of him is pressing against spots inside me I didn't even know existed. It's overwhelming in the best possible way.

I'm scared to move because it's almost like if I move, he'll split me in half.

I can feel everything. Him throb inside me, feel every pulse, every twitch, like he's trying to brand me from the inside out. My walls clench involuntarily around him.

I don't even know if my walls are clenching because I came three times before he even put it in, or if it's just the sheer size of him stretching me in ways I'm not used to. Maybe it's both. Maybe it's my body panicking and pleading at the same time—trying to adjust while also begging for more. Every time he shifts, even slightly, my body responds without my permission. Clenching. Gripping. Like it's trying to keep him there.

"Wow, Jasmine," he breathes, his voice thick with lust. "You feel... fucking amazing."

The words hit me harder than I expect. Praise.

I freeze for half a second—because no one's ever said that to me before. Not during sex. Not ever. Kendrick never complimented me like that. He degraded me, sure. Called me names, pulled my hair, made me feel used. And I thought that's what I liked. What I needed to the point where I thought being praised was too cringe.

But this?

Marc groaning in my ear, praising the way I feel wrapped around him, moaning like he's losing control because of me? It's something else entirely.

And it turns me on more than I know what to do with.

Suddenly, I feel powerful. Like my body—my pleasure—is worthy. Like I'm not just here for someone else's release, but that I'm actually driving his. Making him lose himself. Making him fall apart.

And the sound of his groans? The low, rough way he says my name? It's pure gasoline to the fire already raging inside me.

I can't believe I'm the one doing this to him.

And fuck... I love it.

His lips return to my neck as he starts to move inside me—slow, deliberate strokes that make my breath hitch. He's not pounding into me. There's no rush. It's not about chasing a release.

He's grinding. Deep, sensual, controlled—like he's savoring every second of being inside me. Like this isn't just for him. It's for me too.

And with the curve of his dick hitting upward and slightly to the left, each thrust presses right into my g-spot. The pressure is maddening. I feel my legs tense, my hips instinctively tilting to meet his rhythm. It's like he was carved specifically for me, the way he fits so perfectly, the way every movement makes me feel like I'm about to explode again.

But what wrecks me isn't the stroke—it's the intention behind it.

His thrusts feel like devotion.

Like he's not just trying to get off. He's trying to worship me. Please me. Love me. Every slow grind feels like he's saying, I see you. I feel you. I want you to feel safe while I ruin you.