Pinned Hard Against the Doorframe
I gasped at the slick, demanding heat of his tongue sliding against mine, the wet press of Henrik’s mouth crushing every thought as he slammed me back into the doorframe with the full weight of his body. The wood bit hard into my shoulder blades, a sharp bloom of pressure I felt more than minded, because his hips were already grinding a slow, deliberate line against mine, pinning me so completely that my toes barely grazed the floor. His hands found my wrists first, dragging them up above my head and holding them there against the frame with one broad palm, and the sheer control of it—the way he could cage my whole body with barely any effort—made something low in my stomach clench hot and immediate.
“Don’t move,” he rasped against my mouth, not a request. His other hand splayed wide over my hip, thumb pressing bruising little circles into the bone there, and I felt the growl building in his chest before I heard it, a vibration that traveled straight into my ribs. He held me like that for one long, punishing moment—just his weight, just his mouth, just the frame carving grooves into my spine—like he wanted me to feel exactly how trapped I was before he let anything else happen. His breath was already ragged, sawing hot against my jaw, and the rough scrape of his stubble burned a trail down my throat that made my knees threaten to give out entirely.
“You have no idea what you do to me, standing there in these jeans,” he muttered, teeth grazing my earlobe, and only then did his grip on my wrists loosen enough for both hands to move to my waistband. He didn’t bother with the button so much as he tore it open, and the zipper rasped down in one violent motion. Callused fingers hooked into denim and cotton both, yanking hard, and the fabric caught—stuck—dragging stubbornly against my hips before giving way all at once, shoving down to bunch at my mid-thigh in a graceless, tangled heap.
“Fuck, Caroline, this tight little body was made for me,” he growled right into my ear, voice low and filthy, the praise vibrating straight through my skin as his teeth found my throat and bit down just hard enough to make me jolt. My legs were still dangling, half-suspended against the frame, the lowered denim binding my thighs together, and I twisted my hips and worked my knees apart as much as the trapped fabric allowed, dangling awkwardly in the small space he’d given me, the burn of it—muscles straining sideways against fabric that wouldn’t stretch—only making the anticipation worse. I heard the metallic scrape of his own belt, the impatient shove of his jeans down his hips, one-handed and clumsy because his other palm never left my body, kneading my thigh, my hip, holding me steady against the frame like he was afraid I’d bolt.
“Look how sweetly you’re already dripping for me,” he panted, and I felt him notch against me, missing once, cursing under his breath, adjusting his stance with a rough hand shoving my hip at an angle—and then the blunt, scalding drag of him through my slick folds, once, twice, thick and heavy and almost too much before he’d even pushed in. “Taking it like you were born to be split open on my cock.”
He drove in deep with one hard thrust that knocked the air clean out of my lungs. The stretch was immediate, brutal, glorious—my body wasn’t ready and he didn’t wait for ready, and the sound that tore out of me was something between a sob and his name mangled halfway through. I clawed at his shoulders, fingers digging through his shirt, the denim still trapping my thighs so tightly that every inch he gave me came with a fresh burn low in my legs, muscles screaming at the unnatural angle even as everything else in me screamed for more.
“That’s it—god, you’re squeezing me so fucking good,” Henrik panted, hips snapping forward in a frantic, punishing rhythm that rattled the doorframe against its hinges. His praise kept coming between every wet slap of skin, every filthy drag that ground over that spot inside me until my vision swam. “Perfect cunt, taking every inch like a good girl. You feel that? How deep I am? This body was meant to be fucked raw by someone twice your age.”
He broke the rhythm just long enough to shove a hand between us, wrenching at the denim still bunched around my thighs, and with a graceless kick and a hard tug he freed one leg entirely, the jeans and my underwear left hanging useless around my other ankle. “There,” he muttered, half-growl, half-satisfaction, before his hand slid bare against my bared thigh, gripping hard beneath my knee. He hitched my leg up—higher, higher—until it was hooked over his shoulder entirely, my whole balance surrendered to the frame at my back and the iron of his forearm locked around my calf, his other hand braced flat against my hip to keep me from sliding down the wood. The new angle opened me wider than I thought possible, and when he drove back in it was deeper, sharper, a fresh stretch that punched a broken cry out of my throat and left me scrabbling for purchase against his chest, against the wood, against anything solid in a world that had narrowed down to the exact place we were joined.
“Look at you,” he breathed, ragged and awestruck, pausing just long enough to watch my face crumple before slamming forward again. “Stretched around me like this, leg shaking, so fucking desperate for it—you were made to be taken apart exactly like this.”
The denim still tangled around my other ankle dragged faintly with every thrust, a small, forgotten friction beneath the deeper ache of him, and sweat slicked between us where our stomachs pressed and released with every movement. My first orgasm came fast and brutal, walls clamping down hard around him without warning, my whole body seizing against the frame with a cry that cracked in the middle—but Henrik didn’t stop. He pinned me harder, the hand that had braced my hip sliding up to splay flat against my sternum, holding me still while his forearm kept my leg locked over his shoulder, grinding through the clenching spasms with his hips barely slowing.
“No—no, stay with me,” I gasped, trying weakly to twist away from the overload, hands pushing uselessly at his forearms, but he simply tightened his grip on my calf, holding my leg locked over his shoulder so there was nowhere for my body to retreat to.
“Come again for me, sweetheart. I can feel you fluttering—fuck, you’re so sensitive now, aren’t you.” His voice had dropped even lower, rough velvet scraped raw, every word punctuated by a slow, deliberate grind that dragged straight over nerves still screaming from the first wave. “Still so tight, still taking me so well. That’s my girl, ride it out on my cock, don’t fight it.”
Every drag of him now felt like too much and not enough at once, a vicious, gorgeous overstimulation that had me writhing against the frame, my thigh trembling violently where it hung over his shoulder, small broken sounds spilling out of me that weren’t quite words anymore. He watched my face the entire time, drinking in every twitch and gasp like praise of his own, murmuring filthy encouragement into the two inches of space between our mouths—how good I looked falling apart twice on him, how he could feel the second wave building before I even knew it was coming, how he wasn’t going to let me go until I gave it to him.
The second climax crested harder than the first, a violent, shuddering collapse that broke my voice clean in half on his name, my whole body seizing around him while the doorframe scraped raw against my spine and his grip was the only thing keeping my leg from buckling entirely.
Henrik groaned low and deep as he followed me over, hips stuttering out of rhythm, the hot pulse of him inside me dragging one last helpless whimper from my throat. He didn’t soften, didn’t gentle his hold—if anything his fingers dug harder into my calf, keeping me exactly where he wanted me, my leg still hooked high, my back still trapped against the wood, like he needed one more moment of proof that he owned every inch of this before he’d allow either of us to move.
“Christ,” he muttered against my throat, breath scraping hot and uneven, his forehead dropping to my collarbone. “Twice my age’s worth of restraint just went straight out that window.” There was no apology in it, only a low, satisfied rasp, his mouth grazing one more open-mouthed bite against my pulse point like he was marking the moment down as fact rather than mistake. Neither of us moved to fix our clothes—my jeans still hung useless around one ankle, his still shoved low on his hips, the mess of denim between us proof of exactly how little patience either of us had left. Neither of us spoke of what came next. He just held me there, pinned and trembling, his weight the only thing keeping the frame from being the sole thing holding me up.