Chapter 11 April #5
He positions himself between my thighs, lowering himself down to his elbow on one side of my head. The weight of him, the heat of him, the press of his cock against my thigh is enough to take my breath away.
“Lift your thighs for me, princess,” he murmurs, his free hand wrapping around the back of my knee and encouraging it up. My breath quickens and worsens as I follow his order and feel the tip of him glide across my clit.
“Christ,” I whimper.
“Last chance to back out,” he says. But his eyes tell me that he knows I won’t.
I swallow and hook my ankles around his hips, anchoring him to me.
“I-I’m not backing out,” I say, shivering as his fingers push a strand of hair behind my ear.
“But if you’re not adequate, I’m going to be disappointed.
” He laughs, his breath warm against my cheek. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”
The head of his cock feels like a goddamn brand against my entrance, and I wrap my arms around his neck, needing something to hold on to.
The first press of him makes my mouth part, my breath hitches in my lungs, but he sinks further, splitting me open, my muscles throbbing in protest, and dear god, it’s too much, too much, too much—
“Breathe, princess.”
I suck in air, feeling him sinking just a little further.
“Fuck, you feel—you—” His words fail, his pupils dilate, and for the first time in my life, I see Anthony Voss hesitate. His gaze flicks down to our hips, then back to me. His Adam’s apple moves when he swallows and he sinks that last little bit inside of me.
His hips roll forward, slow and deliberate. Pulling nearly all the way out before pushing back in, and the groan that tears from his throat is sinful. His forehead drops to mine, with ragged breath he parts his lips like he’s fighting for control, but is unraveling fast.
Holy shit.
Every drag of him is electric, stretching me in ways I didn’t know I could want.
His rhythm is punishingly slow, each thrust measured, each withdrawal purposeful, sliding against every sensitive spot inside of me until I’m squirming beneath him, and my nails are digging into the muscles of his shoulders.
“Faster,” I beg, but the words are barely more than a gasp.
His lips split into a smug grin. “Ask me nicely.”
“Fuck me faster,” I snap, glaring up at him even though my hips push up to meet his next thrust. “Please.” His answering laugh is dark, laced with amusement and satisfaction. “Good girl.”
His pace is relentless until he suddenly snaps his hips forward, driving into me with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs. The blankets shift beneath us and the waves break against the shore in a rhythmic pattern. He slides his hand along my thigh, hiking it higher, and angling it just so—
“Oh—god—” My back arches off the cushions as he hits that special spot he’d found with his fingers. Stars burst behind my eyelids and pleasure ricochets through my entire body. Anthony’s grip tightens on my thigh, his groan rough against my ear. “There you are.”
He doesn’t let up or stop. He just keeps hitting that spot with brutal precision.
His breath is hot against my neck, his body turning into a sweating furnace above me.
I’m losing my mind and all coherent thoughts.
I’m aware of nothing except the feel of him, the sound of him, and the way his muscles flex beneath my fingers.
He lifts my chin and says my name. “April.”
My eyes snap to his. They’re dark and hungry and filled with need, those fine lines in the corners relaxed for once, and the sight alone nearly tips me over the edge.
He dips his head just enough for a few wisps of silver hair to fall over his forehead. “Come for me,” he says. “Come for me, April.”
His mouth crashes into mine, devouring the sound that claws its way out seconds later as my body tenses and then crashes like a goddamn tsunami.
My walls clamp down so hard that his hips pause for a fraction of a second.
But then he’s right back to that same pace, fucking me through it, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes.
He looks almost animalistic. His hair is a mess from my hands; his eyelids are heavy, but he clearly has no intention of stopping.
His thrusts turn erratic, his fingers digging into my cheeks.
“Again,” he rasps.
“Again?” I croak.
Before I even realize what he’s doing, his hand slips between us, his palm on my mons and lower stomach. When he presses down, the sensation from before doubles, then triples when his thumb rubs slick little circles on my clit. The sound that erupts from me is ecstasy personified.
The second crest hits me like a freight train: abrupt and unexpected. My vision turns blurry and my body spasms. I faintly hear him hiss, can feel him shift beneath my nails and dislodge me, but I don’t care, I don’t, I can’t—
“Fuck, that’s perfect, you’re perfect—” Anthony curses as my second release rolls through me, his hips stuttering, his rhythm breaking as he buries himself deep with a groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from his chest. Heat floods me, his own release leaking inside of me, and his head drops to the crook of my neck, hot breaths fanning out against my skin.
Then, it’s quiet.
For a blissful second, it’s quiet. The only sounds are the rush of the tide and our shaking breaths. and the absurd knowledge of what we’ve done.
Little red half-moons litter his shoulders. The tiny marks from my fingernails are faint pink lines scratched into his skin. The hair at the nape of his neck is damp, and I can’t stop myself from dragging my fingers through it in the heat of the afterglow.
For the first time in my life, I don’t think about the mess or the consequences.
I simply relish in how good that felt, and how good it still feels with him inside of me.
I realize how shockingly easy it is to be here with him like this.
I’m also aware of how terrifyingly easy it would be to want more.
Anthony pulls away first, lifting up and sitting back. He draws in a slow breath that looks like it took some effort. For a moment, I just watch him. His chest rises and falls, and little beads of sweat drip from his temples, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
When the moment fully ends, he pushes to his feet, grabs his boxers and pulls them on. He extends his hand, helping me sit up. “Come on,” he says, coaxing me up before holding out his button-up for me to put on.
Right. Everything I was wearing is ruined. My stomach sinks as the reality of the situation slams back into place with cruel precision at his quiet, “I’ll walk you back.”
Because, of course he will. Of course he’ll walk me back to my room like a courteous host escorting a guest after dinner. Because that’s what this is, right? A transaction. A physical arrangement. A means to an end. And I agreed to it.
But the unease and the loneliness still hits, low and sharp, catching me wholly off guard. The way he’d touched me hadn’t felt clinical; it felt like wanting, like he wanted the entirety of what happened between us just as much as I did.
“Right,” I say, pulling his shirt on and trying to button it with shaking hands. “Okay.”
I can do this. I can let him walk me back, and I can handle the night alone. And I can handle whatever comes next. Because I agreed to. Because I have to. But I can’t let it happen like that again.