25. Serena #2
He scissored his fingers inside, curling them upward to hit my G-spot. I arched off the mattress, breath catching in a way that made my chest ache.
“If I do this, you gon’ behave?” he cooed, and before I could answer, another smack to my pussy caused me to squeal. “Huh… I can’t hear you.”
That first lick from his tongue sent a shock straight to my core.
My toes curled involuntarily as heat pooled, spreading faster than I expected.
I pushed his head lightly, nails digging into his scalp.
Miles blinked, slightly taken aback, then smiled against me, his nose bumping the hood of my sensitive mound, before slipping his tongue inside and curling deep.
The sensation was electric—intense and overwhelming—and I gripped the headboard, fingers clawing the wood as if it could anchor me against the wave crashing through my body.
I wanted to run. To hide. To shut it all down.
But I didn’t.
Because with every stroke of his tongue, every flick against the places I’d buried deep inside myself, I felt something else breaking through.
The walls I’d built, the cold armor I’d worn to survive—it started to crumble.
Here, in the heat and quiet, I wasn’t the calculated Serena King.
I was just me.
Messy.
Flawed.
Wanting.
And for the first time in years, that scared me more than anything else.
Miles released a deep groan. I felt the vibrations of it run through me, deep and low, as his lips wrapped around my clit and sucked, slow and intentional.
He ate my pussy like a man starved, like he’d been dreaming of this moment, memorizing me in my absence.
My legs started to twitch helplessly, my body chasing the high even as my mind tried to catch up.
I gripped Miles’s head, desperate for something to hold on to, and one of his hands slid up my body, disappearing beneath the hem of my slip—still clinging to me like some last bit of armor.
But even that didn’t last. He shoved the fabric up, over my hips, until it was bunched under my arms and out of the way.
His palm cupped my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple before he rolled it between his fingers.
The combination of his tongue circling my clit, his fingers curling deep inside me, and the sweet ache of his hand gripping and twisting my nipple—it was too much.
Too much heat.
Too much feeling.
Too much of him.
My body convulsed, surrendering before I could even think to stop it.
“Oh my God!” I screamed, voice breaking apart like glass.
I squeezed my eyes shut, sobbing in relief—relief I didn’t even know I needed—when he hummed against my clit in encouragement. Like he wanted me to let go. Like he needed it too.
Blinking slowly, Miles was suddenly bringing me into another kiss, and I could taste myself on his tongue, then he released me. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I whispered, breath catching. “I want you. In the nightstand.”
He shifted off the bed just long enough to reach in my nightstand. I used this break as a chance to gather my breath as I watched as he tore the foil packet open with his teeth, rolled the condom on, and came back to me.
I opened my legs without thinking. My body already knew him.
But my heart…my heart was still catching up.
He lined himself up, running the head of his cock through my folds, slow, teasing, letting my slickness coat him as his mouth found mine again.
“Fuck me,” I said.
When he finally pushed inside me, stretching me open inch by inch, I let out a broken sound in the back of my throat.
“Still feels like mine,” he murmured, voice low, reverent as he pressed deeper. “Pussy still mine, hmm, Sunny?”
“Fuuuck… Miles,” I choked out, my voice unraveling as my head fell back against the pillow.
He had one hand gripping the back of my thigh, pushing my knee up toward my chest while the other braced near my head.
The headboard slammed with each thrust, jarring, relentless— perfect.
He was deep. Too deep. The angle had my spine bowing and my body trembling, pinned beneath his like I was something to be claimed.
My hand pushed at his chest, not because I wanted him to stop—but because it was too much.
He didn’t stop.
His eyes dropped to where our bodies were joined—watching the way he stretched me open around him, wet and pulsing and full.
I shook my head, even as my hips lifted into his, greedy for more.
“I hate you,” I whispered.
“No, you don’t.”
He kissed the inside of my knee. Then my thigh. Then dragged my leg up and over his shoulder, pressing in so deep I could feel him in my chest.
The headboard slammed again, louder this time, the obscene rhythm of it making my face flush and my body clench.
“Miles—” I gasped, but it came out as a moan.
“Look at me, baby,” he ordered, voice rough and steady.
And God help me—I obeyed. My big, teary eyes locked on to his, wide and overwhelmed and glassy. He grinned when he saw the bliss painting my face, pure and unfiltered. That smug bastard. That beautiful, ruined man between my thighs.
He twitched inside me like crazy, cursed under his breath, and then started fucking me harder—deeper.
“Fuck, thaaaat’s it, baby,” he praised. “Feels good, hmm?”
“Please…I’m going—” I mumbled, eyebrows knitting together as I felt something bubbling up inside of me.
“Perfect size jus’ for you too,” he purred against my ear, his tongue flicking at the sensitive skin there, making me shiver even as my nails dug into his back. “Ain’t nobody else make you feel like this.”
How long had I been convincing myself that strength meant solitude? That power meant pushing everyone away before they had the chance to leave?
But now…with him all over me, inside me, whispering things he should never say but somehow meant every word—now, I wasn’t sure.
Maybe it wasn’t weak to need someone. Maybe it was brave.
Maybe it was brave to let him see me like this—raw and open and wrecked. Maybe I didn’t have to do this life alone.
“I can’t!” I cried out.
Miles was hitting me deep , and with a sloppy pivot of his hips, the angle got even deeper—obscene, dangerous. My mouth fell open, a silent cry scraping up my throat. I could see the sheen of sweat on his golden-brown skin, could feel how his body trembled as he pushed through it—through me.
“I know,” he murmured, out of breath, forehead pressed to mine. His strokes slowed, hips still grinding steady, so intentional I could barely take it. I was coming undone, unraveling like thread in his hands, and he was right there with me.
“You feel that?” he panted.
His mouth found my temple, pressed a kiss there so soft, so reverent it shattered me.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let go . ”
My nails bit into his back. My thighs shook.
And then I shattered.
It tore through me, blinding and hot. My eyes squeezed shut as a scream punched out of my throat—half moan, half sob. My pussy clenched so tight around him I felt him jerk , and then he was groaning into my ear, stuttering inside me with a long, drawn-out curse.
I felt the condom throb with his release, heat pulsing into the latex as he rode it out, hips twitching, breath hitching. His body collapsed on top of mine for just a moment, his weight anchoring me. Grounding me.
And still, I held him there.
Chest to chest. Heart to heart.
I should’ve pushed him off. Should’ve let the moment end. But I didn’t.
Because in that silence—his breath mingling with mine, his lips brushing my cheek like he couldn’t not touch me—I realized the truth.
I still loved him.
Even after everything, through all the hate, all the pain, all the years… I still fucking loved Miles Whitmore.