31. Thirty-One
THIRTY-ONE
HARLOWE
Was it fear, or just another kink in the spool of my addiction to him?
Harley massaged the last clots of glitter from her thigh. She caught me staring and grinned, tongue slithering over raw lips. “We doing this again, or were you just marking territory for the fiancé?”
I tried to laugh, but it snagged in my throat. “The fiancé wants a show. He’ll get one.”
She flicked her eyes up, weighing me. “We could stay here—get the velvet room and play with the toys no one’s brave enough to ask for.” She traced the ribbon at her wrist—a nervous tic, maybe, something encoded in the way her eyes flickered from my face to the cage and back.
I took the dare, let the hunger answer for me.
“After closing,” I said. “No voyeurs, just you and me.”
She smiled.
We lingered backstage while the club thinned out.
They’d all seen what happened out there and were cautious to approach, as if the aftermath of two girls grinding each other open was a force field.
Harley and I didn’t so much as touch, outside of the brush of calves and elbows on the couch, but the air between us crackled with the whiskey-laced anticipation of another round, one that would be private and absolute.
At three-thirty, Harley gripped my wrist and led me through the bowels of the club, down a scuffed corridor to a door marked only with black tape.
The velvet room. The air inside was a degree warmer, the scent of latex and leather more honest here, the ceiling haloed with a thousand points of blue LED and dust. Lined along one wall were restraints that were chrome, and padded, the kind you could wear for hours.
Harley wasted no time. She sat me on a chaise, straddled my lap, and peeled the mesh and latex from her hips, exposing a flash of inked thigh and the hungry seam of her cunt, wet and glinting in the starlight LEDs.
The first thing she did was bite my shoulder hard—so hard I yelped, the sound sealed in the velvet.
She pressed me to the chaise, naked hips bracketed over mine, and grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head with a single, sinewy fist.
“Tell me the worst thing you’ve ever done,” she said.
I shivered. I wanted to lie, but the taste of the club and Harley’s fingers sliding up and down through my slit made me reckless.
“I fucked someone who killed my brother.”
Harley nodded as if it were a blessing. Her free hand drifted down and up the line of my body, tracing the damp valley between my tits, then my stomach, then lower, lower, until she cupped me. “You ever want to do it again?”
“Every fucking day,” I admitted.
She let go of my arms and reached for the restraints on the nearest chaise arm, buckling my left wrist tight in a move that was so swift, it made me dizzy to imagine how many wrists she’d practiced on. She caught the hesitation in my eyes, and her face softened for a half-second.
“It’s just play,” she said. “If you want to stop—”
“Don’t stop,” I snapped, and heard the raw want in my voice.
Harley grinned and locked my other wrist, then worked my thong down to my knees, slowly, letting her nails rake lines along the backs of my thighs.
She knelt between my knees, then bent in, tongue flat and searching, licking lazily at the swollen crease until I was shaking and shuddering, nearly levitating off the chaise.
She worked me open, tongue teasing circles around my clit, then pointed and flickered.
I bucked hard, the restraints biting into my wrists, and Harley smiled up, a gleam of blue LEDs catching in the tears that started to slick my cheekbones.
“You like that?” she muttered, voice muffled against my cunt.
Digging her nails into my thighs, she spread me wider, then buried her tongue, stiff and insistent, until all I could do was whimper.
My thighs tremored, heels drumming frantically against the velvet chaise, and Harley just braced herself, locking her arms around my knees, holding on until I fell apart.
She worked her tongue and fingers in, one slipping inside, curling in an ancient, criminal caress, the other dancing on my nerves like a DJ at the decks. She played my clit like an instrument, every pressure calibrated.
I exploded with no warning, the orgasm hitting raw and juddering, nearly blacking out my vision with its force.
Harley didn’t let up, though, she worked me through it, fucked me breathless, then licked the aftermath from my heart to my mouth, climbing over me and sealing my shuddering lips with hers, her cunt grinding slowly on my thigh.
Tasting myself on her tongue, she pressed her chest hard to mine, unbuckling one of my wrists, freeing my hand, and guided it to the slick heat of her own cunt.
“Touch me back,” she whispered. “Just like that.”
Now, I slipped two fingers inside her, working the pace she’d trained into my muscle memory.
Harley was tight and hot, her hips grinding on my wrist in sync with the frantic flex of her inner walls, each movement a dare to see how shamelessly she could fuck herself on my hand.
Her clit throbbed under my thumb. She laced her fingers through mine at the wrist, holding my hand hard against her, rubbing until the velvet dug into her knees.
When I pinched her clit, Harley bucked, hair flying everywhere, nails scoring fresh lines into my shoulder. She howled, and I curled my fingers, and she shattered, wet and urgent, all over my hand.
Harley exhaled a laugh, then pushed my hand up. “I’m not done yet. I want to see you come again,” she whispered against my lips.
She slid down, spreading my thighs wider, her face buried in the soaked mess between, licking me flat and slow and so patient I thought I’d sob.
She stood and went to the wall with sex toys, grabbed a slender stainless steel baton with a curved end, and pressed it to the inside of my thigh, testing the temperature. I shuddered, my eyes wide.
Harley smiled, a slow-taffy pull of intent, then eased the rod inside me—cold at first, then electric, polished metal amplifying my nerves to a fever pitch. She rolled it with her palm, rotating in tiny increments, and the sensation made me scream, raw and hoarse.
She added her mouth again, tongue tracing around the bar, working circles on my clit as she pressed deeper.
My hips bucked in helpless rhythm, thighs clamped tight on her skull, but Harley only muttered “Uh-uh,” and pushed them open wider with her elbows, never easing the pressure.
She thrust with it, slow at first, then in a staccato that made my whole pelvis throb, my scalp prickling with the threat of blackout.
The restraints at my wrists kept my whole body splayed open.
Surrendered.
Harley popped off my clit, let her breath cool the hot skin below, and watched me thrash, catching every scream behind her eyes. She slid the steel out, let it drop to the chaise, and ran her tongue inside me where the cold had been, following with two fingers.
I thought I’d already come, but she found a new pitch and worked me until the white noise behind my eyes crashed into itself and made me come again, hips shuddering, mouth open in a soundless howl.
But she wasn’t done.
Her fingers danced at the rim of my ass, teasing, prodding, one slow knuckle pushing past the tight pressure point, and the sensation went white-hot, flooding my body with a panic of yes.
I arched and ratcheted against the velvet, so far gone I could have begged, but she muffled the sound with her mouth to my clit, humming little chords of pleasure inside my bones.
She slid the baton to the rim of my ass, rotating it gently, opening me without pain but with a wet, bracing shock.
The cool steel sank, bit by bit, until I felt shot through with a filament of pure, outlawed sensation.
Harley’s hands were strong but careful, her blonde hair tickling my flushed skin in counterpoint to the chill inside.
I gasped and rattled against the restraints.
I wanted to curse, to threaten, to fight, but the only sound left in me was a fractured, delighted whimper every time she worked the bar deeper, or used her tongue to stoke heat back into the parts of me that had all but fused with the cold metal inside.
She grinned into the mess between my legs, trailing one hand up the rip of my abs, catching each arch of my body in her palm like it was a coin being tossed for fate.
“You like that, Echo?” she rasped, the baton pulsing at the root of me, her technique so skilled I wondered if she’d trained at a monastery for lost girls.
I opened my mouth, but nothing except a desperate “Fuck, yes” tumbled out.
My whole body ached, every nerve a fuse, and Harley pressed her luck, working the baton with one hand and two fingers from the other, splitting me open for whatever new shape pleasure could find.
The slick, rude sound of me echoed against the velvet and made me blush, deep and raw, at the thought of who might be watching the camera feeds in the back office, if even after hours, Arrow’s men kept a lazy eye on the infamous daughter of Giovanni Virelli in her private ruin.
The thought only made my cunt clutch harder.
I thrashed, gasping, and Harley, seeing I was at the boundary, relented just enough to pull the steel rod free, trailing it gently from my ass as if unsheathing a sword.
I whimpered, high and hot. She ran her tongue lazily up the length of my slit, then climbed up my body, straddling my hips, hair wild, face radiant with sweat and come and the effort of making me break again and again.
She leaned down, lips so faint at my ear, I barely caught the words. “Now that you’re warmed up, I want your fucking mouth on my pussy.”
That was all I needed. Harley crawled up my body and turned around so that her pussy hovered over my face. She spread her knees wide, angled her hips down.
“Show me you mean it, Virelli.”
Her breath was hot over me, and I realized she wanted to eat me out while I did the same to her.