Chapter Twenty-Two • Worship • Lillith #3
My breaths hitch and that coil of pleasure grows more and more taut as he fucks me with his fingers. I clamp down around him even tighter and Damien lets out a little laugh before he says, “Lillith, are you going to come?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Did I tell you that you could come?” he asks.
I meet his eyes, horrified by the menace and glee in his expression. “B-but—”
“You better not come before I give you permission to do so, Lillith,” he says. “You won’t like the punishment for that.”
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I try to relax my inner muscles and as I do, he slips in a third finger, increasing the pace while replacing the full feeling I had just been trying to ease.
I grit my teeth. “Not. Fair,” I grind out, my head lolling back as I try to slow my breathing and stop myself from coming.
The result is a sort of inebriated, full-body pleasure that emanates from deep within me, warming my whole body. I am just about to languish in it, my eyes closed and my mind blissful when I feel the brush of Damien’s soft hair against my inner thigh.
I have mere seconds before he swirls my clit with his tongue. He lifts his head just enough so that I can see the way the two halves of his tongue tangle against the peak of my center. The sharp sadism in his gaze is enough that I’m immediately back on the edge of climax.
“No, no, no, no. Stop, stop—” I whimper.
“Safe word?” he asks, his labret piercing dragging against the tender bud.
“No,” I cry and then he takes my clit into his mouth.
He sucks and moans as his tongue flicks at it. I dig my fingers into the sofa so hard that I feel one of my false nails pop off. My toes curl, and I realize that I’m not going to be able to hold it off. My release is a tsunami careening right for me and my only hope is to get permission.
“Please let me come. Please let me come. Please, Sir, I’m s-s-so sorry. No more secrets. No more,” I whimper.
“You may come—but only after you count to ten,” he says.
Filthy sounds come from between my legs as he fingers me faster, his tongue torturing me.
“One,” I whimper. “Two. Three.”
He presses my clit against the edge of his teeth, not so much that it hurts, but enough that it creates such delicious friction that my legs twitch in time with it.
“Oh, fuck. F-four. Five. S-six.”
I feel his finger start to push at the pleated tightness of my other hole, and I gasp. If he fills my ass while he finger-fucks me, it’s all going to be over. I feel him slide his fingers through the frankly embarrassing wetness before he starts to slowly press into me.
“Seven, eight. No—no—nine.”
I feel the burning pressure of his finger sliding into my back entrance and he takes every last moment to alternate the rhythm between my pussy and my ass as my thighs tighten around his head and I cry out a triumphant “Ten.”
I come undone. I make sounds that I have never heard myself make before. Sounds I thought women faked in videos for male audiences. But this is real. Toe-curlingly, thigh-shakingly, head-spinningly real.
He moans into me as his fingers coax out every bit of pleasure, coming to a slow and gentle stop as I slacken beneath him.
I’m still catching my breath as I whisper. “Can I please touch you, Sir?”
He lifts his head, licking my slickness off his lips as he looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Absolutely, sweetheart.”
I brush my fingers through his hair, relishing its softness. He seems pleased to stay there as I explore, and as I fall into the almost hypnotic tempo of combing my fingers through his hair. A few more tears fall from my eyes and I warble out a plaintive question.
“Am I still in trouble?”
He sighs softly, slipping his fingers out of me before reaching for the dishcloth and wiping my face with it. “No, sweetheart. You did so well for me. So obedient, so good.”
“Are you angry at me?” I ask, more tears coming.
“No,” he says as he gathers me up in his arms and pulls me down onto the floor with him and cradles me close in his lap. “I was just hurt. I thought you didn’t want me.”
“I want you so much,” I weep. “I just don’t want something bad to happen to you because of me. Damien, I could never forgive myself if that happened.”
“I know,” he says, brushing my tears away with the pads of his thumbs now.
He kisses my forehead, and then my cheek and then my mouth.
It’s surprisingly chaste, considering what we just did.
When he pulls back, he smiles down at me, his sharpened teeth glinting.
“As far as punishments go, that one was pretty fun, huh?”
And just like that, he’s back to Damien.
My Damien. Not my Dom. My cute drummer boyfriend who helps wash the dishes and accuses me of slut-shaming him.
Somehow, he is both of these things at once.
He inhabits two very separate personas. And I love that about him.
I love the nuance and dichotomy. I love that his demanding side is one that only I get to see.
“It was,” I say with a laugh.
He nuzzles into my neck, nipping at it gently. “And now my favorite part,” he says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Aftercare,” he says blissfully.