Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Draven
I’m a man of few words, but I’ve never lost the voice in my head.
Right now, looking down at Claire, all I hear is music.
There’s no berating of myself for how I screwed up in the past. There’s no stress about how I’ll perform in the kitchen in the future. There’s no such thing as dissatisfaction or pain.
She’s taken it all away from me with her magical touch. Her exquisite pussy.
The words that urged me into an animal state.
I’ve been given the greatest gift imaginable. A girl who gives me pleasure that transcends reality. A girl whose body makes an ingredient that can’t be found anywhere else.
And in return, I’ve bruised and terrorized her.
There is a red ring around her little throat, her body covered in chafe marks and semen. Her lips are swollen, hair tangled, a bite mark on her throat. I’m not even sure when I did that.
I’m no longer absent of guilt. No, it comes rioting back with pitchforks, stabbing me in the jugular and making me bleed invisible blood all over the sweetest creature in existence.
“Claire,” I whisper hoarsely, gathering her body up against mine and sitting back, rocking her limp body in my arms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t be hurt.”
Her head lolls forward, her cheek landing hard against my shoulder.
She moans softly.
I bite off a sound of distress, my heart pumping ninety miles an hour.
Not knowing what else to do, I rise from the bed and carry her into the en suite bathroom, turning on the bathtub.
I hold her tight and rock her while it fills, my horror increasing when I look at us in the giant bathroom mirror.
Our size difference alone should be a criminal offense.
I’m over a foot taller than her and broader by half and yet, she clings to me so sweetly, like I’m her savior, even as new marks appear on her skin, her legs hanging limply around my hips.
Once the bathtub has filled, I climb inside and hold her in the warm water, murmuring into her hair about how I’m going to marry her one day and bring her on a tasting tour of Europe, so we can laugh at their attempts to create flavors superior to hers.
I tell her she’s going to be a great mother and I apologize for my roughness, even though I am not confident that I can be gentler next time.
Her body turns me into a much more primitive man.
“Draven,” she finally whispers, lifting her head and looking around, blinking sleepily. “Where are we?”
“In the bathtub,” I say, unable to keep the sweeping relief out of my voice, my fingers tracing the hand marks around her throat. “You passed out, Claire. It scared the shit out of me.”
“I did?” She yawns and nuzzles into me. “It feels good in here.”
I’m not going to survive how sweet she is. My chest is an open wound over here, just listening to her delicate voice in comparison to my deeper, older one. “I was so rough. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t slow myself down. I…I lost my mind.”
She lifts her head and rubs our mouths together, a sparkle of joy present in her blue eyes. “I helped you lose it.”
My cock stirs in the water, remembering that move she pulled.
Pushing down on my ass with her heels while she lifted her hips, grinding me so deep I saw the pearly gates.
My balls stiffen, too, as if preparing for another round.
But there can’t be another one. Not tonight.
I’ve worn my girlfriend out and I should be ashamed how I’ve treated a virgin.
“Did you mean it when you said you loved me?” she asks, kissing my jaw. My chin.
“Yes,” I heave from the deepest recesses of my chest. Meaning every syllable. “Love at first sight is real. I never saw you coming. Never could have imagined you, Claire. It hurts me that you’ve been alive this whole time and I didn’t know.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” she giggles, tracing a finger around the notch of my collarbone. “What if you’d found me on my seventeenth birthday?”
“Stop,” I say, swallowing. “Please.”
Worried I know the answer.
Worried there is no dimension where I see Claire and don’t bring her home to my bed.
“You aren’t…in pain?” I ask, kissing her temple, raking my hand down her hair. “I almost choked you out, little girl and…”
“I only got wetter,” she says quietly, razing my chin with her teeth. “And you exploded.”
“Yes,” I pant.
Unbelievable. I’m sweating in the bathtub.
It has barely been twenty minutes since I ejaculated and I’m erect again now, my dick eager against her taut, wet buns, no right to be ready again.
I have no right. But all I can do is grip the edge of the tub and moan raggedly when she lifts her hips and wiggles her lithe body down onto my shaft, issuing horny little sobs as she settles into my lap.
“I choke you so tight, don’t I, Daddy?” she purrs, bearing down on me with her inner walls until I’m fucking gasping. “It’s only fair that you choke me back sometimes, right?”
I’m given no chance to respond before she begins working her way up my aching pole and bouncing back down with a slap of her ass in the water.
For the next fifteen minutes, I’m treated to the kind of filth men don’t dare dream about, because none of them know a girl like this exists.
Only me. My girlfriend, glistening with bathwater in the moonlight, bounces up and down on my cock while praising me, out loud, for being so large.
Her perky tits jiggle and sway for my enjoyment, and when she sees me lusting over her nipples, she arches her back and gives me a fucking show, undulating and shaking those globes for me while somehow maintaining an aura of innocence. Exploration.
It’s not long before I’m moaning and commanding every iota of my willpower not to desert me.
But the end streaks toward me like a comet when Claire asks me to stroke her clit while she rides and babbles about how well I touch her, those hips writhing, writhing.
It’s everything I can do to hold on to my nut while she rubs and rides herself toward an orgasm, burying her teeth in my shoulder when she climaxes, the twist of her sex pitching me over the edge, and I fall blindly, shouting her name.
Allowing myself the bliss she provides.
Later, when she’s been dried off, dressed and tucked into bed, I lay awake in the dark staring at her, wondering what I did to deserve such a gift.
Vowing to never squander it. Never let her down.
Something tells me to stay away from the kitchen.
A sixth sense, perhaps. But the chef inside of me is drawn there in the pitch black of night, my hands executing the steps to make a dozen apple tarts.
When I bite into a warm one, fresh from the oven and feel that familiar strike of disbelief over the indescribable taste, that addictive feeling should serve as a warming.
That as amazing as Claire is, as phenomenal as her body’s offerings might be…
The existence of them could be quite dangerous in the wrong hands.