Chapter 8 #2
My breathing is slow and ragged, my chest rising and falling unevenly.
My ribs are aching and my skin is tingling, alive, every nerve raw.
He shifts beside me, slow, his body a shadow over mine, and his hand drops into his pocket.
He takes out a condom, looks at it, then tosses it on the floor.
It melts into all the junk. His fingers work the buckle of his belt.
A quiet clink, metal on metal—then he peels his pants off.
The fabric slides down his hips quickly, rustling faintly, down his gleaming thighs and pools at his feet.
He steps out, bare as the day he was born.
Moonlight spills through the small windows, pale and cold, catching him just right, and I see his cock; huge, thick, gorgeous, and the biggest I’ve ever laid eyes on.
It hangs heavy, curved just right, the skin taut and smooth, veins gloriously angry under the milky surface.
A quiet gasp of awe slips out of my mouth, and my chest tightens with a slow squeeze of excitement. My mind drifts lazily to Sandy’s dumb research about British guys—and I almost laugh, a huff caught in my throat, but it dies fast, snagged by the sight of him, raw and real in front of me.
For a moment, he stands still, hips slightly slanted, and lets me look at the impressiveness of his thick, solid, and pulsing cock in the bluish-white light.
It seems alive in the shadows. The girth, wider than my wrist, the head flushed dark, a wet bead at the tip catches the moon’s glow and glistens like a pearl.
I stare greedily, mouth dry, lips parted, and my tongue presses my teeth, slow, like I can taste the air.
Then he steps closer, one foot then the other.
The sound is a quiet pulse in my ears. He kneels over me, straddling my hips, his hand sliding down to grip my sex in his palm, warm, firm, thumbs pressing into my skin, slow circles that make me shift.
I feel his cock brushing against me, not in yet, just there, heavy against my thigh, teasing and slow.
The heat of his cock seeps into me as it rests there, pressing soft, promising more, dragging the moment out.
Now, once again, a sane voice in my head tells me to fight.
Before it’s too late, but for some reason I’m unable to speak or move.
It feels as though he's drugged me or something, and I am powerless, only able to watch as he has his way with me. I am somewhat panicked by my own helplessness, but even I know that’s just silly.
He lifts his palm and looks at me… and I know. This is it. My last chance to say no, but I don’t take it. My eyes dare him.
He pushes in, inch by thick inch, stretching me wide, the burn creeping up so strong it’s almost too much to take. It’s not soft—nothing sweet about it—just raw, taking me, filling me up, his cock hard and unyielding, pressing into me like it’s claiming a space for itself inside me.
I feel every goddamn bit of his cock—hot, relentless, throbbing, shoving deep, splitting me open.
Tears sting my eyes and spill down my cheeks, blurring the dark shape of him above me.
A whimper slips out of my tight throat, low and broken.
He stops the merciless onslaught and waits, letting me get used to the unbearable stretch.
Then his hands grip my waist, rough palms digging into my skin, thumbs scraping over my hip bones, and he begins to move again.
A deep, grinding thrust, slow as hell, dragging inside me, and I moan, a guttural, primitive sound. I feel him scrape every nerve raw.
He shifts, harder, deeper, more brutal, fucking me with a steady, punishing rhythm, each push slamming the sofa back against the wall.
The springs groan, a creak that matches the thud of him inside me.
The wet smack of us echoes around us, obscenely as the heat blooms wild between my legs.
My voice cracks, a hoarse cry rushes out, rough and desperate.
My hands claw at his back, nails raking hard, digging into his skin, drawing blood as the intensity climbs.
He grunts. Low. Animal. Every thrust shoves me deeper into the cushions.
The cool air against my sweat-damp skin clashes with the fire of him.
I feel it all—his hard cock driving hard, the stretch tearing me apart, my body gripping him, tight and greedy, sucking him in.
It’s so good—fuck, too good. The wet heat of us is loud in my ears, a filthy rhythm that drowns out the night.
My legs shake with slow spasms, and my spine arches, forcing him deeper, chasing it.
And then I hear it. A knocking. On the front door.
“Who is that?” I gasp.
“My butler. He likes to watch,” he replies.
And I lose it—mind fraying, slipping away fast on a deep, rolling wave that explodes.
I come hard, a scream clawing up from my sex and bursting out, loud and ragged, shattering me to pieces.
But it doesn’t stop—my body keeps going, pulsing wild, and I try to pull back, gasping, clawing for air, and I can’t.
It’s relentless—I grab at his shoulders, then the sofa, fingers sinking into the fabric, trying to stop, and it won’t—fuck, I can’t—and panic seeps in, slow, icy, curling around my ribs.
Am I going mad? My heart slams, terror cutting sharp through the haze, and I’m trembling, lost, drowning in it.
I wake with a cry of fear, air rushing in so thick like it is pulling me under, a scream caught in my throat, my hand slamming hard over my mouth, pressing tight enough to hurt my lips.
The still cottage surrounds me full of dark, cold shadows, eerie as hell.
The air presses in like a weight. I feel my heart pounding so hard my ribs rattle.
I look down and see that I’m sprawled on the sofa, blanket twisted tight around my legs, my clothes are damp, and my sweat runs cold.
My thighs stick together. My phone’s gone—lost somewhere in the junk.
It’s dead and silent, but Sandy’s voice is a faded echo in my head.
Shit. I fell asleep talking to her, and that… that was a freaking dream.
“I’m losing it.” My voice is a cracked whisper, barely audible in the dark. “The butler. Fuck. I’m fucking losing it.”
I sit up slowly. My skin’s buzzing, alive, too much—his hands, his mouth, his cock still crawling over me, so real I swear I feel the ache between my legs, the wet heat still there, pulsing faint. “I’m losing it,” I whisper again.
My head spins as I stand on unsteady legs.
They tremble under me like they’ve forgotten how to hold my weight.
My hands shake as I fumble through my bag clumsily, fingers brushing my stuff from another world, keys, my Kindle, before I find clothes, a pair of underwear, a crumpled shirt, and a soft hoodie.
I clutch them hard, and tell myself this is real, not that, but I can’t shake those wolf-like eyes boring into me, that rough voice scraping my ears, the way he fucked me, slow then hard.
It happened right here. My thighs clench involuntarily, and I feel a slickness still there, warm, real, and I’m horrified.
My stomach twists sharply as my body betrays me. How can it be that I’m still turned on?
What the hell is happening?
I collapse back on the sofa, frozen with shock, and wonder—why was it so intense, so goddamn vivid? I could feel him like it was real, his tongue dragging wet, the roughness of his hands gripping me. Even the stretch of him inside me lingers like a bruise.
I need to cool the fuck down, get my head straight.
I push up and shuffle up the stairs to the bathroom.
I flick on the light, A harsh, yellow glow from a naked lightbulb.
I turn on the shower. After some anxious coaxing, hot water pours out, and I am so grateful for it, I almost cry.
Slow, steaming, thick clouds rise lazily into the air, and I peel off my soaked clothes and step under the hot spray.
I tilt my head back, letting the heat sink deep into my bones.
My hands press against the tiled wall. I open my eyes and watch the water stream through my fingers as I try to pull myself together, claw back some grip, some sanity.
But it won’t go away—his weight on me, his breath on my neck, those mesmerizing eyes cutting through the dark, that slow, rough voice, filthy with need.
I shudder with a mix of dread and want, horrified at how my body hums, still craving for him, even now.
I don’t know how to shake it off, and so I stand there for ages, water pounding on my head, trying to drown it out.
The butler, for God’s sake.
What the fuck is wrong with me?