19. Maren
Maren
T he words hang between us, heavy with meaning. My lips part, but nothing comes out. My brain is scrambled, short-circuiting from his touch. I should say it. I should stop this because I don’t know if I can do it. I haven’t had sex with anyone in over a year.
Twelve months since I had driven that kitchen knife into my stepfather's chest, watching his eyes widen in shock as he realized his perfect little victim had finally fought back.
Three-hundred-sixty-five days since I watched the life drain from the man who'd stolen mine piece by piece since I was sixteen.
Self-defense, the court had ruled. After my uncle made sure it couldn’t go any other way. He never once asked me if it was true. It didn’t matter if it was or not, but he believed me without question.
My prey are the closest a man has gotten before Riggs. The other night was amazing and the first non self-induced orgasm in a very long time, but letting him eat me out and fucking me are two very different things.
Instead, I tighten my grip in his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine.
He makes a sound—half growl, half groan—that vibrates through my entire body.
His hands slide lower, gripping my thighs, and suddenly I'm airborne.
My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, ankles crossing at the small of his back.
Riggs turns, carrying me away from the kitchen. Each step jostles me against him, creating friction exactly where I need it.
He carries me to my make-shift bedroom like I weigh nothing, my back hitting the mattress with enough force to knock the air from my lungs.
Riggs stands over me, chest heaving, eyes wild.
In one fluid motion, he yanks his shirt over his head, revealing the sculpted planes of his torso—the defined abs, the cut of his hips disappearing into his jeans, the light trail of hair leading down.
“You gonna stop me?” he asks, voice ragged.
I prop myself up on my elbows, meeting his gaze. “Shut up and fuck me, Rhodes.”
Something snaps in him—I see it happen, the last thread of his control breaking.
He's on me in an instant, body covering mine, mouth crashing down.
His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, gripping my hips, my thighs, my breasts with a possession that borders on pain. It's exactly what I need.
I claw at his back, nails digging into muscle, marking him as he marks me with teeth and fingers. He tugs my panties down my legs with such force that I hear the fabric tear. I should care, but all I can focus on is the way he's looking down at me, like he wants to devour me whole.
“Fuck, nightmare,” he breathes, taking in my naked body. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “Show me, golden boy.”
He bats my hands away, undoing his jeans himself and shoving them down along with his boxer-briefs. When he kicks them off, I finally see all of him—every hard inch of the man who's been haunting my thoughts for months.
His cock stands thick and proud against his stomach, flushed and heavy. I've never seen anything so perfect in my fucking life. My mouth waters as he wraps his hand around himself, stroking slowly from base to tip.
“This is what you do to me,” he says, voice like gravel. “Every fucking day for months. Walking around campus with a semi because I caught a glimpse of you.”
I watch transfixed as his hand moves up and down his length. A bead of pre-cum forms at the tip, and he swipes his thumb through it, using it to slick his way. My pussy clenches around nothing, already wet and aching.
“You gonna just stand there and jackoff?” I taunt, spreading my legs wider on the bed. “Thought hockey players had more stamina than that.”
His eyes darken, pupils blown so wide there's barely any hazel left. “Oh, I've got stamina, nightmare. Enough to make you forget your own fucking name.”
Before I can respond, he's dropping to his knees at the edge of the bed, those big hands wrapping around my thighs and yanking me toward him in one swift movement. My ass is at the edge of the mattress now, legs spread wide, completely exposed to him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at my pussy like it's the Holy Grail. “Look at you, all wet for me already.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, wanting to see his face. “Are you going to stare at it all day or—fuck!”
The word becomes a strangled cry as his mouth descends on me without warning. His tongue licks a broad stripe from my entrance to my clit, gathering my wetness. I fall back against the mattress, hands fisting in the sheets as he devours me like a man starving.
“Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles against me, the vibration of his words sending shockwaves through my body.
His tongue circles my clit, teasing but never giving direct pressure where I need it most. I arch my back, trying to force more contact, but his hands pin my hips to the bed with bruising force.
“Stay still,” he commands, lifting his head to meet my eyes. His mouth and chin glisten with my arousal. “Let me work.”
I want to argue, to take control, but then his mouth is back on me, and coherent thought dissolves. He alternates between broad strokes of his tongue and attention on my clit, building me up only to back off when I get close. It's maddening, exquisite torture.
“Riggs,” I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair, tugging sharply. “Stop fucking teasing.”
He looks up at me, eyes wild, mouth curved in a wicked smile. “No.”
I'm helpless against the assault of his tongue. It’s like he’s already memorized every spot that makes me shiver.
When he slides two thick fingers inside me, curling them against that perfect spot while he flicks my clit, I nearly come off the bed.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I hiss, my back arching as he works me over.
My thighs start to shake, and I can feel myself getting embarrassingly wet. Not the delicate kind of wet they try to describe in movies and books. This is primal, messy, dripping down my thighs wet. I can hear the slick sounds of his mouth on me, the obscene noises as his fingers pump in and out.
“Look at this pretty pussy,” Riggs murmurs, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh. “So fucking wet for me. It's dripping everywhere.”
I feel a trickle of arousal slide down the crack of my ass, soaking into the sheets beneath me. I should be mortified, but there's something animalistic and freeing about being this turned on.
His fingers twist inside me, stretching me open as he adds a third. The burn is exquisite, another reminder of how long it's been since I've been filled. I clench around him, my inner walls gripping his fingers like they never want to let go.
“Christ, you're tight,” he groans. “Can't wait to feel this perfect cunt strangling my cock.”
My arousal coats his hand, drips down his wrist, and makes a mess of my inner thighs and ass.
He removes his fingers and replaces them with his tongue, fucking into me with deep, penetrating strokes that have me seeing stars.
His nose bumps against my clit with each thrust, providing just enough friction to keep me teetering on the edge.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” I chant, hips bucking against his face, my fingers going to fist in his hair so hard it must hurt. He doesn't seem to care, just growls against my pussy like some feral animal.
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his chin slick and shining with my arousal, eyes wild. “You remember what happened last time, nightmare? When you flooded my fucking mouth?”
The memory of last week, of losing control so completely that I gushed all over his face, his chest, the fucking couch immediately crosses my mind.
“Shut up,” I pant, trying to tug him back to where I need him.
“No.” His voice is firm, commanding. “I want you to do it again. Want you to squirt in my mouth so I can drink it all down.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Need a belly full of your juice in me,” he continues, his filthy words making my cunt clench around nothing. “Wanna fucking drown in you, Maren.”
Something about the way he says my name—reverent and filthy at the same time—sends a jolt straight to my core. His fingers slide back inside me, three of them stretching me wide as his tongue returns to my clit.
“Oh god,” I whimper, the sound so foreign and needy that I barely recognize it as my own. “Fuck, Riggs, don't stop.”
My thighs try to close around his head, but his broad shoulders keep them spread wide, leaving me open and vulnerable to his assault.
“That's it,” he encourages, voice rough with desire. “I can feel you getting tighter. Gonna flood my mouth again, aren't you?”
His words are so fucking filthy. I've never been with anyone who talks like this, who isn't embarrassed or grossed out by the messier aspects of sex. Riggs seems to fucking revel in it.
The orgasm rips through me with such force that my back bows off the bed, a scream tearing from my throat as my pussy contracts violently around his fingers. A gush of liquid streams from me, soaking his face, his hand, the sheets beneath us.
“Fucking yes,” Riggs groans, positioning his open mouth directly over my pulsing center to catch the flood.
He swallows audibly, Adam's apple bobbing as he drinks me down like I'm the finest fucking wine he's ever tasted.
“Give me more,” he demands, fingers still working inside me, prolonging the intense spasms.
Another wave crashes over me, another flood released. It's beyond embarrassing—it's obscene, animalistic, the wet sounds of my release and his greedy swallowing filling the small bedroom. But I can't stop it, can't control the way my body responds to him.
“That's it,” he praises, lapping up every drop he can catch.
When I finally come down, my entire body shaking, I find Riggs still between my legs, his mouth and chin glistening with my release, hair wild where I've been gripping it.