Aragon didn't slow. He rode her through it, drawing out the spasms until she whimpered from overstimulation, then flipped her onto her stomach. He straddled her thighs, keeping her legs together, and drove back inside from above. The position made her impossibly tight, her cunt a hot, wet vise that milked him with every thrust. He braced one hand beside her head, the other gripping her hip, and fucked her hard—short, punishing strokes that slapped his hips against her ass with wet, obscene sounds.
Kaitlyna buried her face in the pillow, muffling her screams, but her body spoke for her: back arching, hips lifting to meet each brutal plunge, fingers clawing at the linens. "Harder," she gasped into the fabric. "Gods, Aragon—ruin me—"
