Chapter 25 Tytus
Chapter twenty-five
Tytus
Asilent sob gets lodged in my throat, stealing the air from my lungs. Clawing at the twisted sheets, I thrash, gasping for air.
It hurts.
Every grate. Every fucking inch of cold metal. The rusted spots I try so hard to avoid. The jagged edges where the frame is twisted.
It all hurts.
I can’t avoid it. Can’t get away. Can’t contort in any way that eases the pain.
Can’t beg loud enough or cry hard enough to make him fucking care.
Though my voice has been silenced, I’m screaming internally, crying and bleeding from the wounds covering almost every inch of my body. Rattling the bars, begging to be let out. Swearing I’ll be quiet, that I won’t ask for food again, if only he’d let me fucking out of this cage.
“Ty. Ty, please.”
Relief hits me instantly.
She’s here.
I’m not caged.
I’m not alone.
My angel—my hope and my light; my sole purpose in this life—is right fucking here.
I turn into her embrace, soothed by her nearness. “Sawyer. You’re real,” I croak. My breath rattles on my next shaky inhale. My chest burns with adrenaline and the tension still coiled tight inside me.
Sniffling, she buries her face in my shoulder. “It was just a nightmare. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
My gut sinks. We’re not. I’m fucking this up. She doesn’t want me the way I want her to. The way I need her to.
This isn’t a fucking game to me. This is real, and she’s my wife, and I need her to need me, too. Yet I can’t make her see that.
I wrap her in my arms, savoring the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin. I’m destroying us, but I’m too addicted to the little hits and the stolen touches to care. If this is all I get, then I’ll take it and I’ll push and push and push, clinging to every scrap she’ll give me.
“Mon ange,” I whisper, dragging my hands up and down her spine.
I palm her ass, then move to her hip and hitch her leg over my lower half.
Her soft stomach gives perfectly as I dig my fingertips into her flesh, anchoring myself, savoring the sturdiness of her body.
I love every roll and curve this woman possesses.
I love having something to hold on to. I love gripping her sides and putting her where I want her.
Knowing she won’t break. Knowing she can take anything I give her.
She’s my safest place. The flickers of light against my darkness. She’s my sanity and my solace and my home.
“We’re okay,” she murmurs against my chest, one hand brushing up my arm and shoulder. When she reaches the back of my head, she scrapes her nails along my hairline, the move sending a shiver through me.
Silently, she explores, every touch lingering longer than the last.
Her mouth brushes my pec, her lips burning my skin as they graze against my collarbone. Her movements are deliberate—intentional and unhurried.
As the aftershocks of the nightmare settle, I find myself sinking into an abyss of pleasure, my cock hard as stone.
Emboldened, I squeeze her side, caress her stomach, and tease the hem of her panties.
“Is this okay?” I ask, slipping two fingers under the elastic.
In answer, she kisses my neck and rolls her pelvis forward, granting me better access.
As I ghost over the soft hair of her mound for the first time, my dick thrums with desire. I’ve seen the little patch of dark curls, but I’ve never touched it. I’ve never stroked it like this.
She rolls her hips toward me again, parting her legs further, allowing for more.
“Good girl,” I choke out as I explore. “Such a good little wife, opening up and letting me in.”
Soft hair gives way to a warm, wet heat. I drag my fingers through her pussy lips, and she whimpers, bracing her leg around my body.
Biting back a smile, I glide my fingers through my new favorite place in the whole damn world.
So fucking wet.
So fucking warm.
I pull back, carefully removing my hand from her panties, my fingers coated with arousal.
“Is all this for me?” I hold them out to show her the glistening slickness I’ve collected, then pop them into my mouth, eager to taste her. When her flavor registers on my tongue, I moan.
With a huff, she smacks my chest. Before I can read into the move, she captures my wrist and pulls my fingers from my mouth. Then she guides them back down her body.
Lower.
Lower still.
She guides me until I’m right back where I want to be, positioning my fingers at a spot not far below that little patch of hair, and presses down. Instantly, she whimpers and her body spasms.
A thrill shoots up my spine. “This is the spot?”
I want to get this right. I’ve never touched anyone like this before, and more than anything, I want to know how to please her.
She answers with a breathy sigh.
Tentatively, I rub over the little bud, and she rewards me with a soft mewl. As I continue my ministrations, her breaths grow faster, shallower.
She’s whimpering for me. She’s gasping for me.
Pride radiates through my chest.
When she grasps my wrist again, I freeze, but when she tugs, silently signaling that she wants something different, I zero in on her subtle movements.
She guides my hand in more of a circular motion, and once she releases me, I continue the pattern, applying more pressure than I would have thought necessary.
The gasps have turned to breathy sighs.
I want to capture each one, bottle it, and keep it all to myself.
Her gentle writhing morphs into bucking movements.
Fuck, yes. I’ve fucking got her right where I want her.
“Look at you,” I say, my voice rough. “Grinding on my hand. What would it feel like if that was my cock, mon ange?”
She lets out a loud, wanton moan that makes heat gather in my groin.
“You want that, baby? You want to grind all over your husband’s cock and make a mess in my lap?”
“Yes. Fuck. Ty…”
In one quick move, I flip us both, eliciting a squeal from her.
Between one breath and the next, I’m flat on my back, she’s straddling my thighs, and I’ve got my boxers pushed down so she has full access.
She fumbles in the dark, trying to line me up where she wants me. When she huffs in frustration, I take over, gripping myself at the base, holding steady.
With her hands pressed to my chest, she rolls her hips. This time when she moans, the first sparks of orgasm ignite in my calves and thighs.
“Just like that,” I encourage. “Do it again.”
She does. She grinds her sex against the underside of my cock, drawing out the sexiest moan as each and every one of my piercings coasts over her clit.
She works herself up and down, up and down, fucking herself on my dick.
She’s going to make us both come like this.
“Look at you. You’re doing so good, baby. I can’t wait to see you come. I want you to fucking soak my lap. I want to smell like you for days.”
As she quickens her pace, I hold myself steady, transfixed by the way she grinds against my piercings.
“Ty. Fuck. I’m close.”
Eyes closed, she throws her head back.
I grip her hips, drink her in.
She’s on the precipice. I want to take her all the way past the edge of ecstasy.
She bucks and grinds, whimpering with every shift of her hips that drives her body harder into mine. Frantically, she grabs my hand, guides it to her sex, and works two digits into her body.
Fuck.
She just put my fingers inside her.
She’s riding my fingers and rubbing her clit all over my cock.
My own release coils around my spine, sparks of unmatched sensation firing off in every limb.
Her mouth falls open into a silent scream, then she freezes.
I keep thrusting up, driving her higher, not willing to stop for anything until she’s fully sated and trembling with aftershocks.
Finally, she collapses against me, trapping my hand between our bodies. I don’t pull out—I don’t dare fucking move. I just lie there, savoring the sounds of her breathy little pants, and reveling in the spontaneous clenches around my fingers as she rides out the release.
We’re both quiet, and I try to savor the moment. But eventually insecurity barges its way in, tugging at my chest, stomping all over my pride and the elation that comes with having her in this position.
As I smooth my free hand up and down her back, I can’t help but voice an uncertainty that’s nagged at me for weeks. “Tell me it’s only me,” I whisper.
I asked her this before—asked her to lie, to pretend.
That’s not the assurance I want tonight.
Tonight, I want to know this is real. I want her to admit that things have changed. I want her to accept that it’s me and her—now and forever.
Her head snaps up, her body stiffening. Then her eyes are on me, full of wrath.
“Say it,” I demand, squeezing her ass with my hand.
She presses against my abs and shifts back. “No.”
I wrap one arm around her waist, trapping her and keeping her lined up with my body.
“It’s only me. Fucking say it, Sawyer.”
“No,” she grits out again, panting.
I thrust up, dragging my piercings over that bundle of nerves I’m sure is overstimulated at this point.
She whimpers on contact.
“You want him? Or them?”
Her breath catches, her lashes fluttering. “Yes,” she admits haughtily. “I want them.”
I fucking knew it.
Jealousy burns in my veins, my vision going dark at the edges. “If you want them so badly, then why did you just come on my fingers and cock?”
Her mouth falls open, though rather than the protest she intended, all that escapes is another moan. I pull her forward, then back, then hold her in place, rubbing and circling until her legs quake once again.
Refractory period, my ass. My wife and I are so well matched it’s not even funny.
“If you want them so badly, I dare you not to come again, petit diable.”
I thrust up, and with a frustrated cry, she grinds against me, her hips creating a steady rhythm that only falters when her body shudders and she lets out a low, keening sound.
Her second orgasm triggers mine, and I shoot my load all over her stomach and hips.
Wave after wave of pearly essence splatters her soft curves. I drag my fingers through the mess, collecting a bit of cum and bringing it down between her thighs so I can paint her clit.
Once the waves of ecstasy have passed, she glares down and smacks my chest. “I hate you.”
Brow cocked, I smirk at the sticky mess coating us both. “That’s not what your body just told me. You can’t have them and me, petit diable. You know deep down it was always going to end this way.”
With a choked sob, she climbs off the bed. She hurries into the bathroom, and when she closes the door behind her, I know better than to follow. I don’t know why I had to push. Why I always fucking ruin it.
Sighing, I flop back on the bed and glare at the ceiling.
What the hell is wrong with me? How do I keep fucking this up?
She says she hates me.
I hate myself, too.
Maybe I’ve destroyed us and this will all come crashing down around me sooner rather than later.
But as I lie on my back in her bed, surrounded by her sweet apple and vanilla scent, covered in a mixture of her release and mine, I honestly can’t bring myself to care about what the future may hold.
I love the feel of her too much. I yearn to be inside her for real, and I will be. Soon.
Maybe I have ruined everything. Or maybe I’m finally breaking through.