7. Selene #2
"Good." He takes my hand, leads me through the doorway, into the master bedroom that has no walls.
The moon is bright tonight, bright enough to see by, silver light pouring through the open frame where windows will one day be.
The mattress lies in the same spot as before, covered now with a sleeping bag and two pillows, a cooler in the corner, a lantern on a stack of two by fours.
He's been planning this. Or hoping for it. Or both.
He lights the lantern. The flame catches, casting amber shadows across the plywood, the exposed studs, the tools scattered in corners. The air smells of fresh cut lumber and ocean salt and him, always him, that dark musk that makes my mouth water and my knees weak.
"Take off your clothes," he says.
I obey. The fabric slides over my head, drops to the plywood.
I stand naked in the half built house, the August night warm on my skin, my nipples tight and aching, my thighs slick with arousal and his seed from earlier.
I don't cover myself. I don't look away.
I let him see what he has done to me, the marks on my throat, the bruises on my hips, the swollen flesh between my legs that still throbs with the memory of him.
He watches me for a long moment, his chest heaving, his hands fisted at his sides.
Then he undresses. His shirt comes off first, revealing the tattoos that snake over his shoulders, his chest, ink on muscle on scar.
His belt. His jeans. His briefs. And then he's naked too, magnificent and terrifying, his cock thick and long, curving upward from a nest of dark hair.
The head is flushed and wet, veins running along the shaft, his balls heavy and drawn tight.
He crosses to me, slow and deliberate, every step a promise.
He lifts me, easy, like I weigh nothing, his hands spanning my ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
He lays me back on the mattress, the sleeping bag soft beneath me, the plywood creaking under our combined weight.
He settles between my thighs, his hips spreading me wide, his cock resting heavy and hot against my stomach, the head reaching past my navel.
"I'd burn the world down for you," he says, and his voice is raw, broken, the voice of a man who has already lit the match. "I'd tear this house apart with my bare hands. I'd kill for you. Do you understand?"
"Yes." The word is barely audible, scraped from a throat tight with tears I haven't shed yet.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You, Daddy. Only you."
He groans, the sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest, animal and desperate.
He positions himself at my entrance, the head thick and blunt, already stretching me before he's even inside.
He pushes. Slow. Agonizingly slow. I feel every inch, every vein, every pulse of him as he opens me, fills me, claims me all over again.
I'm burning, splitting, tears streaming down my temples into my hair, my nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
But it's perfect. It's exactly what I need, exactly what I've needed since the moment he filled the doorway and told me I was late.
"Look at me," he commands. "Don't look away."
I lock eyes with him, dark and endless and full of everything he's never said, everything he showed me in spankings and rules and the way he held me after.
He sinks deeper. Deeper. Until he's buried to the hilt, his hips flush against my inner thighs, his cock pulsing inside me, so big I can feel him in my throat, so deep I can't tell where I end and he begins.
"So small," he whispers, his forehead dropping to mine. His breath is hot against my lips, tasting of bourbon and desire. "So perfect. Made for me. Only for me."
He moves. Slow, deep strokes that drag his thickness against every sensitive place inside me, the ridge of his crown catching on my front wall, the curve of him pressing against spots that make my vision blur.
His thumb finds my clit, swollen and slick, and presses circles that match the rhythm of his hips.
I moan, a low broken sound that echoes off the exposed studs. "Mmnh, Daddy, please?—"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop. Please never stop."
He doesn't. He keeps the pace deliberate, soul-altering, each thrust a statement of ownership.
The mattress creaks beneath us. The plywood groans.
Sweat slicks our skin, his musk mixing with my arousal, sharp and sweet and filthy.
I grip his shoulders, my legs wrapping around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back to pull him deeper.
"Say it again," he growls against my mouth. "Who do you belong to?"
"You, Daddy. Yours. Always yours."
"What would you do for me?"
"Anything." The word breaks on a sob. "Everything. I'd burn the world down too. I'd leave everything. I already did."
"How much do you need me?"
"I can't breathe without you." Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and endless. "I can't think. I can't sleep. I need you like I need air, like I need blood, like I need my heart to beat. I need you more than I've ever needed anything, anyone. Please, Daddy, please?—"
He kisses me, swallowing my words, his tongue sweeping through my mouth with the same rhythm as his hips.
He speeds up, just slightly, the control slipping, his strokes gaining force.
The sound of our bodies meeting fills the half built room, wet and obscene, the slap of skin on skin echoing off bare wood.
"Come for me," he commands, his thumb pressing harder on my clit, his cock dragging through my swollen walls with ruthless precision. "Let me feel you. Let me feel what I do to you."
I shatter. The orgasm rips through me like a current, starting where he fills me and radiating outward until my toes curl and my back arches and my vision whites out completely.
I scream his name, then Daddy, the words dissolving into sobs as my body clamps down on his cock, milking him, pulling him deeper.
He groans, a sound like tearing metal, and buries his face in my neck.
His teeth graze my pulse, his hips stutter, his balls draw up tight against my inner thighs.
He pours into me, hot and thick and endless, marking me from the inside out, filling me until I feel it spilling around his shaft and running down my crease to stain the sleeping bag beneath us.
"Fuck," he breathes against my throat, his body trembling, his weight pressing me into the mattress. "Selene. My Selene."
He doesn't pull out. He stays inside me, softening but still huge, still stretching me, still claiming every inch. He rolls us onto our sides, his body wrapped around mine like armor, his hand spreading wide over my heart, feeling it hammer against my ribs.