Friends

Chapter 69

A/N: The book is FINISHED! You can read the entire story on my Patreon. I also post exclusive standalone smut scenes there if you just want to read those.

Jasmine's POV:

I'm scared.

Not of Marc.

Of what's about to happen inside me.

This orgasm—it's building too fast. Too deep. Too intense.

It doesn't feel like the others. The last orgasm nearly knocked me out—my vision blurred, my body shook, and I couldn't even breathe. I thought that was the most intense climax I could ever feel. But this one? This one feels dangerous. Like if I let go, I'll never come back from it. Like it might tear me apart and put me back together differently.

But God... I don't want him to stop.

Not when he's this deep. Not when his grip is this firm, holding my arms tight behind my back. Not when his voice, low and commanding, tells me to take it like I was made for it. I've never felt so restrained, so dominated—like I'm being used, but in the most reverent way.

Earlier he was calling me "princess" and "baby girl," showering me in soft affection, praise that made me feel cherished. But now? Ever since I taunted him, now he's rougher, more intense—handling me like a precious possession meant to be used and adored in equal measure. Like I'm a toy he's obsessed with—one he can't bear to break, but also can't resist testing the limits of.

And somehow, that only makes me want him more.

Because I've always been stubborn. I've always challenged, pushed, kept control. And yet with Marc, none of that matters. He takes my attitude, my defiance, and strips it away until all that's left is obedience—and the insane, overwhelming desire to please him.

I've never submitted like this before. Never wanted to. But with him, it feels right. Like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be: under his control, loved and dominated all at once.

Because maybe I was.

Maybe this is what my body was waiting for—this kind of release, this kind of surrender.

And it's coming.

Oh God, it's coming.

And I don't think I'm ready.

But I want it anyway.

It starts like a balloon swelling inside me—tight, pressured, throbbing. But this balloon feels more swelled inside of me than the last one.

Then it bursts.

Electricity floods my entire body. My ears pop. My toes curl. My breath catches—then disappears completely. I can't breathe. My body goes still and stiff from the shock of it. It's too much—everything is too much. The overstimulation, the pounding, the grip on my wrists, the hand still tangled in my hair.

I can feel my body going into shock, trembling uncontrollably, and just when I think I might collapse, Marc's grip on my wrists and in my hair tightens. He holds me still, locked in place, not letting me move an inch.

And that—that—is what sends the orgasm imploding.

It's like I'm being electrocuted with pleasure. It shoots through every nerve, every vein, and I can't control anything. I can't speak. I can't move. I can't breathe.

And then... everything goes numb.

It's like lightning behind my eyes. My vision starts to dim, the edges turning fuzzy and gray like fog rolling in. I try to blink it away, to focus, but I can't. It's like everything is slipping from me—my breath, my grip on reality, the room around us.

Marc is still thrusting—relentlessly, deeply—and it's too much. I can feel every drag of him inside me. My clit pulses, my skin is on fire, and I can't find oxygen. My lungs scream for air, but my body won't obey. My toes curl so tight I swear they might cramp, my fingers twitch, my mind blanks.

Then it starts to go dark.

Not all at once—slowly. Like a light dimming, like a sunset fading to black.

Then suddenly—smack.

A sharp, stinging tap on my cheek.

My eyes shoot open, breath hitching in my throat. I blink fast, disoriented. Everything is spinning. My ears are ringing. My chest rises in ragged, desperate gasps, lungs finally remembering how to work.

"Wake up slut, I'm not finished," Marc says, voice low and demanding, then another smack.

That's when I realize—I'm no longer on my knees. I'm flat on my stomach, legs stretched out behind me, Marc's body wrapped around mine like a shield. His arm is under my head, pulling me close, and his chest is warm against my back. I feel completely surrounded. Protected.

Safe.

I can barely move. My muscles are jello. My skin tingles from the aftershocks. And still... I feel amazing.

Because the truth is, passing out like that? It somehow made the orgasm a hundred times better. Like my body gave out only because it couldn't handle the pleasure anymore. Like it had to shut down just to survive it.

And God... I'd do it again in a heartbeat. Even now, with Marc still violently thrusting into me—deep, relentless, like he's trying to etch himself into my soul—I can't stop shaking. Every nerve ending is raw, every touch is amplified, and I'm trapped in a perfect storm of pleasure and helplessness. It's overwhelming. It's terrifying. And I crave every second of it.

I don't know how I'm still conscious.

My body is completely spent—every limb heavy like it's been filled with cement. My legs refuse to respond. My arms feel boneless. My chest rises and falls in jagged gasps, but the air never feels like enough. My skin is flushed, damp, hypersensitive to every brush, every shift. And still, Marc doesn't stop.

If anything... he's going harder.

His thrusts pound into me like a drumbeat, relentless and punishing. The rhythm isn't just steady—it's brutal. There's no hesitation. No mercy. Just this wild, powerful force that crashes into me again and again like waves trying to drown me.

It's too much. Too deep. Too fast.

"Marc," I try to say, but it comes out as a whisper.

He doesn't slow.

My body jerks with each thrust, my ass smacking back against him, raw and aching. I can feel the stretch, the deep ache in my hips, the quivering of muscles that have long since given out. My clit throbs with residual pulses from too many orgasms, and even though I'm not touching it, I swear it's still begging for release.

I can't take anymore.

I can't.

But he's still going.

He's not showing signs of fatigue—his body still moving with the same controlled, savage rhythm like he's been saving all his stamina for this exact moment. It's not even human. It's primal. Like he's possessed with the need to finish what he started—to make sure I have nothing left to give but his name on my lips and trembles in my thighs.

And God, I love him for it.

But I'm scared.

Scared because I don't know if my body will survive another orgasm. Scared because every time he drives into me, I feel myself unraveling a little more. Like I'm coming undone at the seams. At this point, if I have another orgasm he's just forcing it out of me.

I want to beg him to stop.

I want to beg him to keep going.

Because in this exhaustion—in this helplessness—there's something intoxicating. Something raw and vulnerable that I've never allowed anyone to see. I'm broken wide open for him, and he's filling every space with his presence.

Marc is inside of me—in every possible way.

And even now, as tears prick my eyes and my body trembles beneath his, all I can think is...

I'm about to break.