Chapter 23 Sanctuary Behind The Curtain
SANCTUARY BEHIND THE CURTAIN
~BECKETT~
Kneeling here before her, the confined space of this changing room transforms into a private sanctuary, my world narrowing to the exquisite sight of Wendolyn's thighs parted just enough to invite devotion.
Her scent envelops me, a heady blend of wild vanilla orchids blooming under summer rain, laced with the unmistakable tang of her burgeoning desire.
I draw in a deep breath, savoring the essence that clings to the air, exhaling slowly as if committing it to memory, a ritual of reverence before indulgence.
A low groan escapes my throat, unbidden, and I murmur with mock solemnity, "Lord, bless this feast before me, for it is surely divine," my voice roughened by the hunger coiling tight in my gut.
Her laughter rings out, light and breathless, cutting through the tension like sunlight piercing fog, her fingers threading tentatively into my hair as she steadies herself against the mirror.
The sound fuels me, a reward sweeter than any praise, and I hook my thumbs into the delicate lace of her panties, easing them down with deliberate slowness, revealing her inch by tantalizing inch.
The fabric whispers against her skin, pooling at her ankles, and there she stands, exposed and glistening, her core a vision of flushed petals slick with invitation.
The full force of her arousal hits me then, a wave crashing over my senses, making my mouth water and my pulse thunder in my ears.
I lean in, unable to resist any longer, my tongue tracing the tender folds with a first, exploratory stroke that has her gasping above me.
The flavor explodes across my palate—nectar and salt, honeyed warmth that speaks of her essence, unique and intoxicating.
I take my time, savoring each pass, lapping at her with languid precision, circling the sensitive bud of her clit without mercy, teasing it into swelling under my attention.
Her thighs quiver, a subtle tremor that betrays how deeply she's affected, and I press closer, my hands gripping her hips to anchor her as I delve deeper, my tongue thrusting in rhythmic insistence, mimicking what my body aches to claim fully.
She moans my name, "Beckett," a whispered invocation that spurs me on, her fingers tightening in my hair, urging me without words to continue this worship.
I oblige, building the cadence gradually, alternating between broad, flat strokes that coat my chin in her slick and pointed flicks that make her hips buck involuntarily.
The mirrors multiply our image, reflecting endless versions of this intimate tableau—me on my knees, devoted; her arched against the glass, surrendering.
Her breaths come in ragged bursts, her body trembling now in earnest, waves of pleasure rippling through her as I slide my tongue deeper, thrusting with insistent pressure, curling to find that hidden spot that draws forth cries she struggles to muffle.
The build is exquisite torture for us both, her arousal coating my lips, my chin, marking me as hers in this moment.
I feel her climbing, the tension coiling tighter, her moans escalating into soft cries of "Beckett, please," until finally, she shatters, her release crashing over her in trembling waves, her core pulsing against my mouth as she cums with a muffled sob, her entire frame quaking in my hold.
But we don't progress further—no joining of bodies, no fulfillment of the ache hardening me painfully against my jeans—because a polite knock echoes from the door, followed by the attendant's concerned voice.
"Everything alright in there, dear? I heard some noises."
Wendolyn freezes, her post-orgasm haze fracturing as she composes herself with remarkable speed, her voice emerging steady despite the flush painting her cheeks.
"I'm fine, thank you—just getting my Alpha's opinion on a few pieces." She clears her throat, adding with a forced casualness, "You know how it is."
The attendant chuckles, a warm, knowing sound that carries through the wood.
"Aww, that's wonderful. How amazing to be so lively, young, and part of a pack.
The good life, indeed." There's a pause, then, "I'll be back shortly—heading out to water the remaining flowers in the outdoor garden space. Take your time."
We wait in suspended silence, my ears attuned to the retreating footsteps, the faint jingle of keys, until certainty settles that we're alone once more. Only then do our gazes lock, steam, and promise crackling between us like embers in dry tinder.
I rise slowly, deliberately, licking my lips to capture the lingering slick that cloaks them, the taste of her addictiveness a brand I'll carry gladly.
She watches me, eyes dark with residual heat, and asks in a voice husky from pleasure.
"Was that taste satisfying enough?"
I smirk, the expression feral with unquenched desire, and close the distance.
"Fuck yeah," I rumble, before capturing her mouth in a searing kiss, sharing the essence of her own sweetness. "But you should sample your own addictiveness…see why I can't get enough."
She groans into the kiss, deep and fervent, our tongues tangling in a dance that reignites the fire we'd barely banked.
When we part, breathless, she glances down at the insistent bulge straining my jeans and teases, "You planning to walk around with that hard-on the whole time?"
I grunt, grumbling against her lips as I steal another quick press.
"What're you gonna do about it, Firefly?"
Her smile spreads wide, radiant and mischievous, before she sinks to her knees with graceful intent, her fingers already working at my belt.
"Just a little taste, right?" she taunts, echoing my earlier words, her eyes gleaming with wicked promise.
Her words hang in the air like a dare, that playful taunt laced with heat, and I watch her descend, graceful despite the cramped confines of this dressing room.
Wendolyn's knees hit the floor with a soft thud, her vivid green eyes locking onto mine, sparkling with mischief and something fiercer, a hunger that mirrors the blaze roaring through my veins.
My pulse thunders, blood surging south as she positions herself before me, fingers already grazing the zipper of my jeans, teasing the metal tab with deliberate slowness.
The mirror behind her multiplies the scene, reflecting endless versions of us tangled in this forbidden interlude, each one more intoxicating than the last.
I draw a ragged breath, my chest heaving as her touch sends jolts of electricity racing up my spine.
"Wendolyn," I growl, voice roughened by restraint, "you're playing with fire here.
" But hell, who am I kidding? I'm the one engulfed, my cock straining against the fabric, aching for release from the prison of denim.
Her smile widens, all wicked delight, as she tugs the zipper down, the sound obscenely loud in this confined space.
Cool air hits my skin, but it's her gaze that scorches, devouring me as she frees me from the confines of my boxers.
Her hand wraps around my length, firm and confident, stroking once, twice, with a rhythm that has my hips bucking involuntarily.
Slick from her earlier arousal still lingers on my lips, a sweet reminder of how I devoured her moments ago, but now the tables turn, and the power shift ignites something primal in my core.
I thread my fingers through her fiery hair, not guiding, not yet—just anchoring myself as she leans in, her breath ghosting over my tip.
The anticipation becomes a living thing, a feral animal pacing the cage of my ribs, thrashing and snarling to be let loose, and when her tongue finally flicks out—delicate and devilish—the contact is so direct, so molten hot, I nearly see stars behind my eyelids.
In an instant, the pressure ratchets from aching to unbearable.
My hands, which only moments ago gripped the edge of the bench behind me, clench white-knuckled, and I have to fight the reflex not to thrust forward, not to seize her head and drive deeper into the plush heat of her mouth.
She starts with a featherlight tease, the tip of her tongue swirling around the crown, gathering that first bead of precum with a greedy, kittenish lap.
The way she sighs, savoring the taste, her lashes fluttering, makes me want to drag her up and kiss her senseless, but then she does it again—slow, deliberate, watching me the whole time.
My mouth goes dry. My chest tightens. Every nerve in my body narrows to that single point of contact, the world outside this dressing room falling away until we're the last two souls on earth, bound by the voltage running between her lips and my cock.
I grit my teeth, jaw ticking with the effort to stay in control.
"Wendy," I warn, but my voice is ragged, not nearly as stern as I intend. It comes out as a plea. She grins up at me, wicked and loving, and then flattens her tongue along the underbelly of my shaft, dragging upward from base to tip in one long, wet stroke. Fuck. I have to squeeze my eyes shut, just for a second—if I don’t, I’ll come before she even takes me in.
Beneath me, her hair is a firestorm in my fists, and I let my hands rest gently there, not guiding so much as grounding myself in the reality of this: her kneeling, me standing over her, every part of me trembling with the need to claim and be claimed.
When she opens her mouth and takes me in, it's a slow, savoring slide, each inch disappearing between her lips as she maintains eye contact, eyes sparkling with mischief and devotion.
She swallows me to the hilt, the pressure and heat like nothing I've ever felt—so much better, so much more than I ever imagined.
The back of her throat flutters around me, and I have to stifle a shout, my body jerking with the force of restraint as she begins a gentle, torturous rhythm.