Chapter 4 An Addiction Worth Obsessing #3
My lips trace her vertebrae, mouth watering as I lay a line of marks—one for every time she’s ever called me an asshole, one for every time she’s rolled her eyes, one for every time she’s pushed me away so I could only want her more.
She thrashes a little, finally waking enough to know what’s happening, but instead of shoving me off like she would in daylight, she lets out a sound that’s half moan, half warning. I smile against her skin; she’s going to rip me apart when she’s fully conscious, but until then, I’m king.
I take my other hand and use it to spread her thighs wider, just enough to get the angle right. My fingers scissor inside, stretching her, and I can feel the ripple of what’s coming—a low, rolling wave that’ll build and break.
She’s so wet now it’s obscene, slick running down my wrist, dripping onto the sheets, and I want the whole fucking apartment building to smell it. To know she’s mine.
She bites down on a pillow, muffling another moan. Her body bows, a perfect arch.
For a split second, I slow down, just to watch her hover at the brink, her stomach trembling, the muscles of her legs turned to liquid. She’s gasping my name now, the syllables blurred by need, by the sleep still tangling her mind.
All I want is to hear her beg.
Her thighs clamp around my wrist, and I know she’s about to lose it, so I drag my thumb over her clit, just the way she likes, and that’s all it takes—her whole body goes rigid, then shatters.
She spasms around my fingers, her orgasm silent at first, then a desperate, shattering whine as she comes apart.
I don’t let up. I keep fucking her with my hand, drawing it out, milking every last drop of pleasure from her until she’s shaking.
Her scent explodes in the space between us, raw and sharp and so fucking sweet it makes my eyes water.
I want to bottle it, drink it, drown in it.
"That's it, princess," I whisper, the words a growl against her ear, lips grazing the shell as I let her taste every edge of my intent. "Gonna come undone for your villain, hmm?" I want her to know—no, to remember—that she’s mine, and there’s no universe where I’ll let anyone else fuck her like this.
She shudders, hips twitching, one last feeble attempt to resist before the pleasure bulldozes through her.
Her hand claws at the sheets, knuckles whitening, and the sound that drags itself out of her throat is fucking art.
I crook my fingers inside her, just the way she likes.
She’s so wet that every movement is met with that obscene, sucking sound—music, really, a filthy soundtrack to her unraveling. I can feel the tension in her, a live wire ready to snap, and I want to watch her break.
I want to see her ruined, trembling, the high-performance machine of her body brought to a screeching, shattering halt by nothing but my hand and the need I pour into her.
She’s so close now I barely have to move—a thumb’s-width of pressure against her clit and she clamps down, squeezing so tight it hurts, and then she’s gone.
Her orgasm tears through her, wracking her whole body, arching her spine back against my chest until I can feel every bone, every muscle, locked and shaking. Her breath stutters out, a high, keening whine that’s more animal than human. I fucking love it.
But I don’t stop.
I keep my fingers moving, slower now, coaxing every last wave from her—prolonging it, milking the aftershocks until she’s gasping, twitching, completely at my mercy.
Her slick coats my hand, dripping down to stain the sheets, and the scent of her release is so thick in the air I want to rage out of my own skin.
My cock aches, pressed painfully against her ass, but I don’t give in, not yet.
This is still about her, about wringing out every ounce of surrender.
She collapses into me, limp and boneless, her head falling back onto my shoulder.
Her hair tickles my nose, wild and tangled from the sleep she’ll never get enough of. I brush it back, kissing her cheek, her jaw, the sweat-damp skin behind her ear where her pulse hammers loud and frantic.
She tastes like everything I’ve ever been addicted to.
I ease my hand from between her legs, slow and careful, not wanting to spoil that perfect post-orgasm haze. I study her face, the slack, open-mouthed expression of someone who’s been thoroughly, completely fucked.
I drag my fingers along her inner thigh, painting lazy, possessive patterns in the mess I made, and for a second, I just watch her breathe.
She stirs, mumbling something that could be a curse or a prayer, I can’t tell which.
Doesn’t matter. The part that matters is the way she turns toward me, seeking out my mouth with the blind hunger of someone who’ll never admit how much she needs to be taken care of, even when I’m the only one who can.
I kiss her slow and deep, letting her taste herself on my lips, and when I pull away, her eyes crack open, unfocused but burning with the kind of heat that could melt fucking steel.
Her hand comes up, fumbles for my wrist, and she tries to shove me away—but she’s too tired, too relaxed, and all she manages is a lazy slap that makes me grin against her mouth.
"So insane.." she slurs, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.
The accusation is half-hearted, almost affectionate.
I lick the slick from my fingers, slow and deliberate, knowing exactly how it’ll make her blush even now.
I capture her lips in a hungry kiss, groaning into her mouth, then pull back just enough to bring my slick-coated fingers to my lips again, sucking them clean with a deliberate slowness, tasting every bit of her sweetness before crashing my mouth back to hers.
If teasing her like this can feel so blissful, what would it be like to claim her?
Not just fucking—owning, branding, making it impossible for anyone else to measure up.
Even half-awake, she belongs to me.
And I’m never letting her go.
I kiss her again, deep and filthy, until our lungs start to burn and the only thing in the world is her, her body, her taste, her scent.