CHAPTER 9: HUNGER UNLEASHED
The air in the room feels thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex as Mr. Jameson's body presses against yours. His arm drapes over your waist, a casual claim that keeps you pinned to the bed. You're still buzzing from the last round, your skin tingling where his hands and mouth have been, but the ache between your thighs tells you this night isn't over. Not by a long shot.
He shifts behind you, his breath hot against your neck as his fingers trail down your side, lingering on the curve of your hip. "You're still awake," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. It's not a question—he knows you're not done, just like he isn't. His hand slides lower, dipping between your legs, and you tense as his fingers brush your oversensitive flesh.
"Couldn't sleep with you doing that," you shoot back, your voice sharp despite the shiver that runs through you. You twist to face him, meeting his gaze—dark, predatory, and already burning with renewed hunger. No softness, no tenderness. Just a man who wants more, and you're the one he's set his sights on.
"Good." His lips curl into a smirk, and before you can respond, he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach again. The movement is swift, rough, and your breath catches as he pulls you up onto your knees. "I'm not finished with you yet, Anum. Not even close."
You feel him behind you, the heat of his body as he positions himself, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. There's no hesitation, no gentle buildup—just the blunt press of his cock against your entrance, still slick from before. He doesn't ask if you're ready; he doesn't need to. You agreed to this, to him, and he's taking what's his.
He thrusts in with one brutal stroke, filling you completely, and you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets. "Fuck," you hiss, the stretch bordering on too much, but your body responds anyway, arching back to meet him. He groans, low and guttural, his fingers digging into your flesh as he sets a punishing pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, raw and relentless, drowning out everything else.
"You take it so well," he growls, leaning forward to press his chest against your back. One hand slides up, wrapping around your throat—not tight, just enough to remind you who's in control. His other hand stays on your hip, guiding you back onto him with every thrust. "This is what you're made for, isn't it? Taking my cock like it's the only thing that matters."
You moan, the words hitting you as hard as his thrusts. There's no room for thought, no space for anything but the heat building inside you, the friction of his thick length dragging against your walls. He shifts his angle, hitting that spot deep inside that makes your vision blur, and you cry out, your body trembling under the assault.
"Don't stop," you pant, pushing back against him, chasing the edge you're already hurtling toward. "Harder."
He laughs, a dark, jagged sound, and obliges, slamming into you with a force that drives the air from your lungs. His hand tightens around your throat briefly, then releases, sliding down to pinch your nipple instead. The sharp sting sends a jolt straight to your core, and you clench around him, earning a hissed curse from his lips.
"Greedy little thing," he mutters, his thrusts growing erratic as he nears his own peak. His fingers find your clit, rubbing fast and rough, no finesse—just pure intent to make you shatter. "Come on my cock again, Anum. Now."
The command tips you over, and you scream, your body seizing as the orgasm rips through you. Your walls clamp down on him, pulsing wildly, and he groans, his hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge. He buries himself deep, his release hot and pulsing inside the condom, his grip on you bruising as he rides it out.
For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of him still pinning you to the mattress. Then he pulls out, abrupt and unceremonious, and you collapse forward, your limbs shaky and spent. He rolls onto his back beside you, chest heaving, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
"Still think you can keep up with me?" he taunts, his voice rough but edged with amusement. He doesn't touch you now—no cuddling, no lingering closeness—just the raw aftermath of what you've done.
You turn your head to look at him, your own smirk tugging at your lips despite the exhaustion. "I'm still here, aren't I?" you retort, your tone defiant. You're sore, marked, and thoroughly fucked, but you won't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.
He chuckles, a low, dangerous sound, and reaches for another condom from the nightstand. "Good. Because I'm not done testing that stamina of yours." He tears the packet open with his teeth, already half-hard again, and gestures for you to climb on top. "Your turn to work for it."
You hesitate for half a heartbeat, then push yourself up, straddling his hips. No promises, no feelings—just the game, the heat, the unrelenting drive to see who bends first. And you're not about to lose.
You hover over him, thighs bracketing his hips, feeling the heat radiating off his body as he lies beneath you. His cock juts up, thick and ready, the fresh condom gleaming faintly in the dim light. Mr. Jameson's eyes lock onto yours, dark and challenging, that smirk still tugging at his lips like he's daring you to prove something. You don't back down—never have, never will.
"Show me what you've got," he says, voice rough and taunting, his hands resting lazily on your thighs. He doesn't guide you, doesn't pull you down—just waits, letting the tension coil between you like a live wire.
You don't waste time with words. Gripping his shaft, you line him up, the blunt tip nudging against your slick folds, still throbbing from the last round. You sink down slow at first, just enough to tease, watching his jaw tighten as your heat envelops him inch by inch. His breath hitches, but he doesn't break eye contact, and neither do you. Then, with a sharp drop, you take him fully, the stretch pulling a low groan from your throat as he fills you to the hilt.
"Fuck," he grunts, his hips twitching beneath you, but he keeps his hands where they are, letting you set the pace. For now.
You start moving, rolling your hips in a steady rhythm, each grind driving him deeper. Your hands brace against his chest, nails digging into his skin just enough to leave faint red lines—not out of affection, but to mark your territory in this unspoken battle. His muscles flex under your palms, taut and hard, and you can feel the strain in him, the effort to let you lead when every inch of him wants to flip you over and take back control.
"Too slow for you?" you taunt, picking up the pace, slamming down harder until the bed creaks under the force. Your thighs burn, but you ignore it, fueled by the heat pooling in your core and the way his eyes narrow, lust and frustration warring in their depths.
"Keep talking," he growls, finally moving his hands to grip your ass, fingers digging in as he thrusts up to meet you. The sudden jolt sends a shockwave through you, and you bite your lip to stifle a moan. "I'll fuck that attitude right out of you."
"Try it," you snap back, leaning forward to change the angle, grinding your clit against his pelvis with every roll. The friction's brutal, relentless, and you feel the pressure building again, fast and unforgiving. You clench around him deliberately, squeezing tight, and he curses under his breath, his grip tightening until it's almost painful.
He doesn't hold back now—his hips buck up, meeting your downward thrusts with equal force, turning it into a punishing rhythm that blurs the line between who's fucking who. The room fills with the wet slap of skin, your gasps, his low growls, all blending into a chaotic symphony of need. Sweat beads on your skin, dripping down your spine, but you don't slow down—can't, not when you're this close to shattering again.
"Harder," he demands, one hand leaving your ass to slap it sharply, the sting igniting a fresh wave of heat in your core. "Ride me like you mean it, Anum."
You do. You slam down with everything you've got, your thighs trembling, your breath ragged, chasing that edge with a single-minded focus. His hand snakes between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, rough circles—no teasing, just raw intent. "Come," he orders, voice thick with lust. "Now."
It's not a request, and your body doesn't care to argue. The coil snaps, and you cry out—a sharp, broken sound—as the orgasm crashes over you, your walls fluttering wildly around him. Your vision whites out for a second, your hips stuttering, but you keep moving through it, riding the waves as he groans beneath you, his own control slipping.
He grabs your hips with both hands, taking over, thrusting up into you with savage intensity as you shudder through the aftershocks. "Fuck, that's it," he rasps, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release. One, two, three more brutal thrusts, and he stiffens, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he spills into the condom, his cock pulsing inside you.
You collapse forward, chest heaving, your forehead resting against his shoulder for a moment—not out of closeness, but sheer exhaustion. His hands slide off your hips, falling to the bed as he catches his breath, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Not bad," he says, voice hoarse, dripping with smug satisfaction. "You've got some fight in you."
You lift your head, smirking despite the tremble in your limbs. "More than you can handle," you retort, rolling off him to sprawl on your back, the cool sheets a shock against your overheated skin. Your body's a mess—sore, marked, buzzing—but you revel in it, in the pure, unadulterated rush of it all.
He turns his head to look at you, eyes still dark with hunger despite the sweat glistening on his brow. "We'll see about that." He reaches for the nightstand again, fishing out another condom, and tosses it onto your stomach. "Rest's over. On your knees."
You laugh—a sharp, defiant sound—and snatch the packet, tearing it open as you shift into position. No softness, no surrender—just the next round in a game neither of you plans to lose.
You rip the condom packet open with your teeth, the sharp sound cutting through the haze of your panting breaths. On your knees, ass in the air, you feel the bed shift as Mr. Jameson moves behind you, his presence a wall of heat and barely restrained energy. Your body's screaming—thighs quaking, core still pulsing from the last round—but you shove the exhaustion aside. This isn't about limits; it's about breaking them.
He doesn't bother with words this time, just grabs your hips with bruising force and yanks you back, lining himself up. The tip of his cock—already rock-hard again—presses against you, slick and insistent, and you brace yourself, fingers clawing into the sheets. He doesn't ease in; he slams forward, burying himself to the hilt in one ruthless thrust that rips a ragged scream from your throat. The stretch burns, borders on unbearable, but the jolt of pleasure that follows drowns it out.
"Fuck, you're still so tight," he growls, voice shredded with lust, his hips snapping against your ass with a wet, obscene slap. He doesn't hold back—sets a pace that's savage from the start, each thrust driving deeper, harder, like he's trying to fuck you through the mattress. The bedframe groans beneath you, slamming against the wall in time with his rhythm, a chaotic drumbeat to your gasps and curses.
You push back against him, meeting every brutal plunge, your body a live wire of sensation. "That all you got?" you snarl, twisting your head to shoot him a feral grin over your shoulder. Your voice is hoarse, wrecked, but the taunt lands—his eyes flash, dark and dangerous, and he answers by wrapping a hand in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arches painfully.
"Keep running that mouth," he snaps, his other hand cracking down on your ass—hard, the sting sharp enough to make you yelp. "I'll fuck you 'til you can't talk." He punctuates it with another thrust, this one angled to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision spark, and you choke on a moan, your defiance crumbling under the onslaught.
He doesn't let up—pounds into you with animalistic fury, the hand in your hair pulling tighter, forcing your neck to crane as he leans over you. His chest presses against your back, slick with sweat, and you feel his teeth graze your shoulder before he bites down, not gentle, not playful—just raw possession. The pain flares, mixes with the pleasure coiling tight in your gut, and you thrash beneath him, hips bucking wildly to keep up.
"Fucking scream for me, Anum," he snarls against your skin, his free hand sliding under you to pinch your nipple, twisting until you do—a loud, broken cry that echoes off the walls. He laughs, dark and jagged, and shifts his grip, shoving your face down into the pillow as he straightens up, both hands clamping onto your hips again. The new angle's deeper, relentless, and you feel him everywhere, stretching you, claiming you, ruining you.
Your muffled moans spill into the fabric, drool soaking the pillow as he drives you past coherence. Your body's a mess—sweat-drenched, trembling, marked by his hands and teeth—but you're too far gone to care. The pressure builds again, fast and violent, and you grind back against him, chasing it with everything you've got left. He feels it—your walls fluttering around him—and growls, low and primal, his thrusts turning erratic, frenzied.
"Not yet," he grunts, pulling out abruptly, and you whine at the sudden emptiness, your body clenching around nothing. Before you can protest, he flips you onto your back, spreading your legs wide with rough hands. "I want to see your face when you break."
He's on you in an instant, shoving back in with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. Your legs hook over his shoulders, and he folds you in half, driving down into you at an angle that's pure punishment. His eyes lock onto yours—wild, unhinged, drinking in every twitch, every gasp as he fucks you into the mattress. One hand braces beside your head, the other finds your clit, rubbing fast and sloppy, no rhythm, just brutal intent.
"Come," he orders, voice a guttural rasp, his thrusts shaking the bed so hard the headboard cracks against the wall. "Fucking come, Anum, or I'll keep going 'til you pass out."
You can't hold back—the command, the pressure, the relentless pounding—it all crashes together, and you shatter. Your scream's raw, throat-scraping, as the orgasm tears through you, your body convulsing, thighs clamping around him as your walls milk his cock in tight, desperate pulses. Your nails rake down his arms, leaving red welts, and he hisses, slamming into you one last time before he breaks too, a primal roar ripping from his chest as he spills into the condom, hips jerking with the force of it.
He doesn't collapse this time—just hovers over you, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow onto your skin as he rides out the aftershocks. You're a wreck beneath him—legs limp, breath ragged, core still twitching—but you meet his gaze with a smirk, defiant even now. "That it?" you rasp, voice barely audible, daring him to push further.
He laughs, a wild, unhinged sound, and pulls out, tossing the condom aside as he grabs another from the dwindling pile on the nightstand. "You're fucking insatiable," he says, rolling it on with shaking hands, his cock already twitching back to life. "Spread your legs wider. I'm not done wrecking you."
You do, thighs trembling as you open yourself up, and he dives back in, this time lifting your hips off the bed to slam into you from a new angle. The pace is slower now but no less brutal—long, deep thrusts that make your whole body jolt, your oversensitive flesh screaming in protest and pleasure. He hooks one of your legs over his arm, spreading you impossibly wider, and leans down to bite your nipple, sucking hard as he grinds into you.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you chant, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his back, anything to anchor yourself as the overstimulation builds into something feral, uncontrollable. He switches to the other breast, teeth scraping, tongue lashing, and you feel another climax creeping up, smaller but sharper, like a blade slicing through you.
He senses it, speeds up, his hips snapping with renewed fury. "Again," he growls, voice barely human, his fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise. "Give me one more, you greedy little slut."
The words hit like a spark, and you're gone—body locking up, a high-pitched keen spilling from your lips as you come again, weaker this time but no less intense, your vision spotting black at the edges. He doesn't stop—fucks you through it, chasing his own edge, and when he finally comes, it's with a guttural shout, his whole body shuddering as he empties himself once more.
This time, he pulls out and flops beside you, both of you sprawled out like casualties of war—panting, drenched, utterly spent. The room reeks of sex, the sheets a tangled, soaked mess beneath you. He doesn't touch you, doesn't speak for a long moment, just stares at the ceiling as his chest heaves.
"Still alive?" he finally mutters, voice wrecked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Barely," you croak, rolling onto your side to face him, your body a throbbing, aching wreck. "You?"
He snorts, reaching for the last condom on the nightstand. "One more," he says, holding it up like a challenge, his eyes glinting with manic energy. "Unless you're tapping out."
You laugh—a hoarse, wild sound—and snatch it from him, tearing it open despite the way your hands shake. "Not a fucking chance."
Your hands tremble as you roll the last condom onto him, your fingers clumsy from the strain of hours spent clawing, gripping, and fighting to keep up. Mr. Jameson's cock twitches under your touch, still hard despite the punishment you've both endured, and his eyes—red-rimmed, feral—bore into you with a hunger that's beyond reason now. You're a mess—hair plastered to your face with sweat, body slick and bruised, legs barely holding you up—but the fire in your gut hasn't died, and neither has his.
"Last one," he rasps, voice like gravel, his chest heaving as he watches you straddle him again. "Make it fucking count, Anum."
You don't reply—just sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his jaw clenches as your battered heat swallows him whole. The stretch is agony now, your oversensitive walls protesting every inch, but you grit your teeth and take it, locking eyes with him in a silent dare. His hands shoot to your hips, fingers digging in so hard you'll wear his prints for days, and he thrusts up, meeting you halfway with a force that jolts your entire body.
"Fuck!" you hiss, your palms slamming against his chest for balance as you start to ride him, hips snapping down in a rhythm that's sloppy, desperate, unhinged. The bed's a wreck—sheets torn, frame creaking like it's about to collapse—and the room's a furnace, thick with the stench of sweat, sex, and sheer exhaustion. Neither of you cares. This isn't about finesse anymore; it's about survival, about who cracks first.
He growls, a low, guttural sound, and sits up suddenly, wrapping an arm around your waist to yank you flush against him. The shift drives him deeper, and you choke on a scream, your nails raking down his back, leaving bloody streaks in their wake. He doesn't flinch—just grabs your ass with both hands and lifts you, slamming you back down onto his cock with a wet, brutal smack that echoes off the walls.
"Harder," he snarls, teeth bared, his face inches from yours, breath hot and ragged. "Fucking take it, Anum. All of it."
You do—throwing your head back, you grind down with everything you've got left, your thighs screaming, your core a throbbing mess of pain and pleasure. He meets you thrust for thrust, his hips bucking up wildly, no rhythm, just chaos. One hand leaves your ass to twist your nipple, pinching hard enough to make you yelp, and the jolt shoots straight to your clit, reigniting the ember of a climax you didn't think you had left.
"Shit, shit, shit," you pant, your voice a wrecked chant as you feel it building again—smaller, sharper, meaner than the others, like a blade twisting in your gut. He senses it, shifts his grip to hoist you higher, and starts jackhammering into you, his cock slamming against that spot inside that makes your vision blur. The bedframe bangs against the wall, a relentless tattoo, and you're sure the neighbors can hear every filthy sound spilling from your lips.
"Come on, you little bitch," he growls, his hand sliding between you to mash his thumb against your clit, rubbing fast and rough, no mercy. "One more. Give it to me."
It hits like a freight train—your body seizes, a hoarse, guttural scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm rips through you, vicious and unrelenting. Your walls clamp down on him, spasming so hard it hurts, and your hands fist in his hair, yanking as you ride it out, hips jerking uncontrollably. He curses, loud and jagged, his thrusts turning sloppy as your clenching heat drags him over the edge too.
"Fuck—Anum!" he roars, burying himself deep one last time, his cock pulsing as he unloads into the condom, hips twitching with the force of it. His grip on you tightens, bruising, possessive, as he shudders through it, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. You're both shaking now—wrecked, spent, barely human—and for a moment, you just cling to each other, panting, too fucked-out to move.
He finally lets go, dropping back onto the bed with a groan, and you collapse beside him, your body a quivering heap of aching flesh. The condom's tossed aside, landing somewhere in the wreckage of the room, and you don't even have the energy to care. Your chest heaves, your throat's raw, and every muscle feels like it's been run through a shredder—but you're still here, still breathing, still smirking.
"Done?" you croak, turning your head to meet his gaze, your voice barely a whisper but dripping with defiance.
He laughs—a hoarse, broken sound—and drags a hand through his soaked hair. "For now," he mutters, his smirk matching yours, though his eyes are heavy, flickering with the edge of collapse. "You're a fucking animal."
"Takes one to know one," you shoot back, rolling onto your stomach with a groan, every movement a fresh stab of soreness. The sheets stick to your skin, damp and ruined, but you don't care. You've won—maybe not outright, but you've matched him, blow for blow, thrust for thrust, and that's enough.
He doesn't respond, just lies there, chest still rising and falling hard, the silence thick with the aftermath. No words, no tenderness—just two bodies pushed past their limits, sprawled out in the wreckage of a night that's left you both hollowed out and buzzing. The game's over, at least until one of you recovers enough to start it again.
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