Chapter Twenty-Nine • Cooked • Lillith #3
He groans. “So, so good,” he says, gripping my lower lip between his thumb and his bent index finger, staring at my mouth like he wants to recalibrate and fuck me in the mouth instead.
But his eyes flicker up to mine and his expression smooths to something warm and worshiping again.
“Alright,” he says. “I promise to fuck you like an animal in a rut later—maybe even later today. But this time? This first time I fuck you, I want you to feel how much I love you every time I stretch your perfect pussy around me.”
I return the warmth, smiling up at him and nodding. “Okay,” I say.
His hands are large around my hips as he grasps me, his weight pressing me down into the couch as he starts pushing inside of me.
It’s easy and smooth, but gloriously filling as he stretches me and seats himself all the way to the hilt.
I can see what he means about hurting me—about making sure that I can take him nice and easy this first time, even though the ease of it makes me crave even the smallest hint of cruelty.
Something to make taking him a challenge I can be rewarded and praised for.
He lets out a ragged breath as I clench and adjust around him, the could-be discomfort no more than an overwhelming heat inside me.
He feels so good. Like he was made to be there. Even the hard structure of his hips against my thighs meets all my softness in the perfect compliment.
“Okay?” he asks.
“It’s perfect,” I sigh.
He makes a masculine sound of agreement before he slowly, slowly draws back out of me, every hard ridge and swell catching and brushing the delicate folds of my channel. “Oh, fuck,” he moans. “God, Lillith. I want to live here.”
I want him to live here too. I almost tell him so, but then he’s pushing inside me again and I can’t breathe, can’t think around how good it feels. He lowers himself so his hips and abdomen are flush with mine, kissing me slow and deep before he starts the most delicious, grinding rhythm.
This isn’t some kind of porn star, jackrabbit fucking.
This is slow and lazy and languid and good.
Unbelievably good. He watches me intently, inhaling and exhaling in time with me.
I lose myself in the forests and lakes of his eyes.
He slides one of the hands on my hip down my flank and hooks it behind the crook of my knee, pushing my upper thigh against the curve of my breast. I go taut around him again.
It hurts. The sensitive swell of my cervix pangs with pain.
I go so tight around him that he almost can’t move, but the experience is the best I’ve ever felt as he keeps grinding past that resistance.
It feels like testing him—like fighting him—and being wrestled into loving submission. My toes curl against his side.
“Sweetheart needs it to hurt a little, doesn’t she?” he asks, his hooded eyes alight with dark gratification.
I nod eagerly and bite down on my lip before another pathetic sound falls out of me.
“You’re so perfect,” he says kissing my temple so gently. “Perfect for me. Letting me fuck you until it hurts.”
The lazy grinding shifts to slow, powerful thrusts. Each one making me whimper or cry out or yelp. Heat builds, blanketing my body in tingling warmth and blurring my thoughts at the edges. Coherent thoughts vignette into hazy impulses. Pure sensation. Simple intuition.
“Will you come for me, sweetheart? Nice and messy? All over my cock?” he grunts.
“Yes,” I plead.
“Good,” he says as he increases the speed, pressing down on the mound of my pelvis and tightening the fit even more. “Come for Sir. Do it now.”
And I don’t know what kind of freakish sex magic he’s doing, but I obey. Release tackles me like a fucking linebacker and I’m suddenly so tight around him that he has to grit his teeth to force himself deeper.
“Oh, fuck yes,” he growls. “Stay just like that for me.”
I obey, happy to have him continue and extend the last tendrils of my orgasm. He gets rougher—a little meaner—grasping my neck beneath my chin as his eyelids droop and his jaw loosens. “You want my spend inside of you, sweetheart?” he grits out.
“Gods, yes,” I wheeze out.
“Beg,” he says.
“Please come inside me,” I say, like the very good girl that I am. “I want to feel your hot load leaking out onto my thighs.”
“You...” he grunts before barking out laugh. “You fucking overachiever.”
I stay tight around him as he picks up speed and thrusts, hard, three more glorious times. His breath hitches before he lets out the most lovely little trilling sound.
It’s pathetic, I think. Satisfaction pools, warm and liquid, as he collapses on top of me and whimpers out another noise next to my ear. His cock pulses inside me and I feel that hot spend I begged for push past the seal he’s made by burying himself.
There is something so incredibly intoxicating about making your dominant, sadistic boyfriend into a whimpering puddle from underneath him. I might submit to him, I might obey him, but that doesn’t mean I have no power in the dynamic.
“I’m sorry,” he pants against my throat. “I said I was going to behave, and I still bullied you a little bit.”
“Don’t be,” I say, kissing his sweat-slicked temple. “If I wanted a sweet, tender boyfriend, I would go find one.”
He turns his head so we’re almost nose to nose. “You like a bit of predicament play, don’t you?”
“I think almost as much as you like it,” I say smiling. “I like a challenge. It makes me feel more present.”
He nods. “Yeah,” he says, lifting a hand to brush some hair out of my face. “Me too. More vigilant. I love watching you work so hard to please me. Frankly, I just love staring at you. All the time.”
I laugh. “Me too. I wish I could go to more of your shows so that I could stare at you drumming more.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to. Maybe we’ll learn that all the stuff with Aemon is all bark and no bite.”
“Maybe we will,” I say.
“It all starts with those journals,” he says.
I frown, knowing he’s right. There’s pit of dread in my stomach thinking about it. But knowing that I won’t have to do it by myself makes it feel a little more achievable. “When do you have to leave?” I ask him, sure he has some music thing or other to do. I haven’t really tuned in for a while.
“Well,” he says with a sigh. “We’ve all pretty much agreed that having our van incinerated by a witch warrants a little bit of a hiatus.
Oren has been sort of existentially staring out the studio windows for the last five days.
Fletcher is… honestly, weirdly calm. And Roxie has had to be talked off a ledge about fifteen times over the existence of ghosts. ”
“Ghosts? How did ghosts come up?”
“They’re a real fucking chicken,” Damien says. “Like, Corpse Bride is a horror movie to them.”
I laugh. “Note to self, no séances for Roxie,” I say.
“Definitely no Ouija boards as Christmas gifts, or whatever.”
“You think they’ll vibe with a possessed doll?”
“Oh god, do you have one?”
“I could probably make one,” I say.
“That little evil smile is so damn sexy. I’m keeping that in mind for the next time they prank me.”
“How has Satoshi handled it?” I ask.
“Mostly by talking about Wren every second he gets. I swear the guy is just listening to conversations for an opportunity to simp for her.”
“I mean, valid,” I say. “I also simp for Wren.”
“That’s different. You’re best friends,” he says.
I wiggle a little underneath him as the final hazy edges of pleasure become clear again. “I know you were proving a point, but can we please bathe now?” I ask. “I feel... sticky.”
“Absolutely,” he says.
He picks me up as he stands, his half-hard cock slipping out of me and hanging heavily over the fly of his half-dropped pants. I become an absolute mess all over my thighs and his abs. I wince. “Sorry,” I whine.
“Don’t be. I fucking love that you’re messy because of me,” he says, as he walks into the bathroom and sets me down on the closed toilet.
He turns on the tap, running a bath for us instead of a shower.
I heave out a sigh, anticipating the comfort of soaking with him.
With having his fingers running through my hair to wash it for me.
The bath is the last bit of care I need for the miasma of melancholy to finally release its hold on me.
It feels so nice to be taken care of by Damien.
Once I’m clean, I feel kind of human again.
We order greasy Chinese food, and Damien puts on what he calls my “sad girl pop” playlist as we finally crack open one of the journals.
Specifically the journal from the year my mom got pregnant with me.
Damien reads it to me, and his low voice reading it like a storybook helps me distance myself from the main characters of the narrative a bit.
It helps that, in the beginning, my mother’s regard for Nan is similar to mine.
But even when that perception begins to shift, it’s not abrupt.
A lot of what my mother has written mirrors how I feel now.
Confused, hurt, hopeful she’s mistaken. Hopeful I’m somehow misremembering Nan. That she wasn’t this emotionally negligent woman that recent experiences have colored her in my mind as being.
But my mother’s not mistaken, of course. And neither am I. After we get about halfway through the journal, Damien closes the yellowing parchment around his thumb and sets it aside.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Damien says, his voice gentle. A little fried from hours of reading. “You look so fucking distraught right now. And I think this stuff is going over my head.”
“It’s complex,” I say with a nod. “But... essentially, my mother learned shortly after she conceived me that the ‘curse’ from the demon—from Aemon—wasn’t so much a curse as much as it was an old ass bargain.”
“Which... we knew, right? We know that this whole thing is a promise for a bride that wasn’t fulfilled.”