Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty Five
Erica
Nico still has my hands in his, and he kisses my knuckles on each hand before pinning them above my head with one of his. The unexpected move pulls a moan out of me.
The move is fluid, so smooth and practiced and effortless that it sends a jolt of pure desire straight to my core. He's strong. So much stronger than me. And the thought should scare me, but it doesn't.
It makes me feel safe.
Protected.
Cherished.
Especially when he tells me to give a test squeeze of his hand to make sure one of mine can reach him properly. I do, and it's perfect.
He shifts his weight, bracing himself above me, so he’s straddling my chest. His cock, hard and heavy and magnificent, juts out from his body, so close I can feel the heat radiating from it.
It glistens with my arousal, slick and ready.
My breath hitches.
He's going to put it in my mouth.
I'm going to taste him.
I'm going to taste myself on him.
I am completely at his mercy.
The thought of being used like this, for his pleasure, makes me squirm in anticipation.
"Someone's eager," he murmurs, a dark, amused glint in his eyes.
I don't bother to deny it.
Because I am.
I'm so eager it feels like my skin is too tight, like I'm going to combust from the sheer force of my own wanting.
He shifts again, positioning himself at my lips. My gaze is locked on the thick, flushed head of his cock, a bead of fluid glistening at the tip. My mouth waters.
I watch, mesmerized, as he reaches down with his free hand and wraps it around his length. My breathing hitches. He gives it a slow stroke, his thumb brushing over the tip, spreading the bead of liquid that has gathered there.
My body clenches in response. An empty, desperate ache that needs to be filled.
He's so damn big.
I don't know if I can take him.
The thought is a flicker of fear, but it's quickly extinguished by a wave of white-hot desire.
I want to try.
He's still slowly stroking himself, watching me, his dark eyes filled with a hunger so raw, so primal, it makes me feel like the most desirable woman on earth.
"Since this is your first time, I'm going to take it easy on you," he says, calm and relaxed, despite the hunger in his eyes.
I want to object. I want to tell him to use me however, but I know he won't, and I know I shouldn't want it. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into.
"Open," he commands.
I obey without hesitation, my lips parting, my tongue peeking out to wet them.
He guides the head of his cock to my lips, brushing it against them, a slow, teasing gesture that has me squirming, my body aching with a need so intense it's almost painful.
"Taste me," he says.
I dart my tongue out, licking the tip.
A moan escapes me.
It's not what I expected. It's... good.
A little salty, a little musky, a taste that is uniquely him. And underneath it all, something I instinctively recognize as myself. The combination is intoxicating.
"Take more," he says, his voice a low growl.
I lean forward, wrapping my lips around the head of his cock, my tongue swirling around the tip, exploring the sensitive ridge.
There’s a low rumble in his chest, and I feel it in every nerve ending in my body.
He likes it.
I'm doing it right.
A surge of pride, feminine and fierce, rushes through me, and I take a little more, my mouth stretching to accommodate him.
His grip on my wrists tightens, a silent warning that sends a fresh thrill of desire through me.
"Easy," he says, his voice a strained, gravelly murmur. "Don't try to take too much."
I pull back slightly, my lips still wrapped around him, and look up at him, my eyes wide and questioning.
"Let me lead," he says, his thumb stroking my cheek. "Relax your jaw and let me lead. There will be plenty of time to play later."
A wave of heat runs through me, and I let out a soft moan around his cock.
Play later.
The thought is a delicious, terrifying promise of all the things he's going to do to me, all the ways he's going to use me, to teach me.
And I can't wait.
I relax my jaw, a conscious effort, and wait for him to make his next move.
I nod, my gaze locked with his.
He starts to move, slow, shallow thrusts, testing my limits and seeing how much I can take.
I try to relax my jaw, to breathe through my nose, to accommodate him, but he's so big, so thick, the pressure is almost overwhelming.
Tears prick the back of my eyes, a mixture of strain and raw, unfiltered emotion.
I feel a fresh wave of wetness between my legs, a humiliating, undeniable proof of how much this is turning me on.
He's using me.
He's claiming my mouth.
And my body is singing with a pleasure so intense it's almost painful.
"Good girl," he murmurs, noticing my effort, my struggle. "You're taking me so well."
The praise, so simple, so sincere, is a balm to my frazzled nerves, a validation that I'm doing this right.
That I'm being good for him.
He pushes just a little deeper, and I have to fight the urge to gag, my body's natural reflex warring with my desperate need to please.
"Squeeze my hand if you need to stop," he says, his voice soothing. "Remember your colors. What color are you, Erica?"
"Mmph green," I manage to get out, the words a muffled, garbled mess around his cock.
That arrogant smirk I'm really, really starting to love spreads across his face.
"Good," he says, and shifts so he's coming in at a higher angle and moving straight in.
He starts to move again, slow, steady thrusts that push a little deeper with each one.
I can feel the head of his cock sitting near the back of my throat. It's not in danger of blocking my airway yet, but my gag reflex isn't happy. I have to breathe through the wave of panic, of nausea, that rises up.
I squeeze his hand hard and hold on.
He stops instantly, pulling back slightly but not all the way out. "Easy," he says. "Breathe."
I take a deep, shuddering breath, my eyes closed, my body trembling.
When I open my eyes, they're wet with unshed tears.
"You're doing so well," he says, his thumb stroking my cheek. "I know you can take a little more for me. Just try to relax."
He pushes back in, slow and steady, and this time, I'm ready for it.
I breathe through it, focusing on the sensation, the pressure, the taste, the raw, unfiltered intimacy of the act.
And I start to enjoy it.
The feeling of him filling my mouth, the way he controls my breathing, the power dynamic that's so potent it's electric.
My hands, pinned above my head, helpless to move.
My hips arch off the bed, a desperate, involuntary movement seeking a friction that isn't there.
I'm so empty.
So achingly, desperately empty.
I need him to fill me. To claim me. To make me whole.
"You're getting greedy," he observes. He chuckles, a low, dark sound that vibrates through my chest, straight to my cunt.
"Are you wet for me? Hmm?" He doesn't let me answer. He already knows. "You are, aren’t you? Just a little taste of my cock, and you're dripping."
I can only moan in response.
He sees my reaction, and his smile widens.
"It turns you on, doesn't it?" he murmurs, his voice a seductive taunt. "The thought of begging me. You like the helplessness. Of letting me use this beautiful body however I want."
He's right.
I do.
I love it.
I love the feeling of being completely at his mercy, of being nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure.
And to think, I could've missed out on this entirely if he hadn't been so persistent. If he didn't know me better than I knew myself, right from the start.
"I'm going to go a little deeper now," he warns, his voice a rough growl. "I want to feel the back of your throat. I want to feel you swallow around me. It's only going to block your airway a little, so breathe slowly and calmly through your nose."
He pushes in, again with shallow thrusts, working his way deeper.
I feel a surge of panic as the head of his cock brushes against the back of my throat. My gag reflex flares, a violent, uncontrollable spasm, and my eyes water.
I squeeze his hand tight, and he stops, giving me a moment to adjust. He holds my hand tight as well, giving me an anchor in a storm.
"Relax," he soothes.
He waits, patient, predatory, until my body relaxes again, welcomes the intruder. Then he pushes in a little more. I fight the urge to gag, to pull away, and instead, I swallow, a slow, deliberate motion that I hope will please him.
He groans, a deep, guttural sound that sends a thrill of triumph through me. "That's it," he praises, his voice a low, appreciative murmur. "Such a good girl. Such a perfect, tight throat for me to use."
The words, so crude, so possessive, are the most beautiful I've ever heard.
My hips arch off the bed, a desperate, needy movement.
I'm so close to the edge again. So close to coming just from the feel of him in my mouth, from the sound of his voice, from the sheer, overwhelming power of his presence.
"Can you take a little more?" he asks. "Just a tiny bit? Just right here at the top of your throat. Squeeze my hand once for green, nice and firm."
I squeeze his hand.
Once.
Hard.
Eager.
That's all the encouragement he needs.
He pushes in a little more, and I feel him slide into the top of my throat. He holds it there for a second, a still, heavy presence, before pulling back slightly to let me breathe.
It's not long enough to actually affect me, but the feeling of having my oxygen cut off, helpless to his will, his pleasure, is heady.
A wave of heat washes over me, so intense it feels like I'm burning from the inside out. My entire body tenses, ready to snap.
A thrill, dark and delicious, runs through me.
He does it again, a little deeper this time, holding it for a second longer.
My body is a live wire, every nerve ending humming with a desperate, frantic energy.
I'm lost in a haze of pleasure and submission, a willing victim to the dark, decadent desires he's awoken in me.
He pulls back enough that I'm in no danger of choking, but he doesn't pull out all the way.
He fucks my mouth with shallow thrusts, using me for his pleasure, and I revel in it.
I revel in the feeling of being used, of being owned.
Of being his.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough and demanding.
I force my eyes open, my vision blurred with tears, and look up at him.
"I'm going to come in your mouth." A fact, not a question. "You're going to swallow every last drop. Do you understand?"
I can't speak, my mouth is full of him, but I manage to nod, my gaze locked with his.
His eyes, dark and fathomless, burn with a raw, primal hunger that makes my blood sing.
He starts to move again, faster, but shallow thrusts between my lips, against my tongue. My entire focus narrows to the sensations: the slide of his skin, the taste of him, the low, guttural sounds he's making, the punishing grip on my wrists as he leans forward and fucks my mouth.
His movements become more erratic, more desperate.
He's close.
I can feel it in the tension coiling in his body, in the way his breath hitches.
He pulls out of my mouth and starts jerking his cock.
"Stick your tongue out," he orders, then lays the tip on it, aimed for my throat.
His hand moves faster, a blur of motion.
I watch, mesmerized, as his body tenses, a hoarse groan tearing from his throat.
"Fuck," he snarls. "Look at me now."
My eyes fly up to meet his just as a strangled groan rips from his throat.
Hot, thick spurts hit the back of my throat and paint my tongue.
The taste is salty, a little bitter.
I love it.
I swallow, a slow, deliberate motion, my eyes locked with his.
Some of it drips onto my chin. The degradation of it is thrilling in a way I never would've thought possible.
A wave of intense, possessive satisfaction washes over me as I watch him watch me. He doesn't look away as he continues to milk himself of every last drop.
He's mine, I think, a fierce, triumphant thought that comes out of nowhere.
As much as I am his.
He is mine.
When he's finished, he doesn't move.
He just stays there, braced above me, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Suck," he orders quietly
I lean forward and wrap my lips around his tip, and I clean him with my tongue, gently licking the sensitive skin, tasting the last traces of his release.
He swipes his thumb through the mess on my chin and pushes it into my mouth. I clean it the same way I did his dick.
A dark, satisfied groan rumbles in his chest.
That's a reward in itself.
He shifts, moving off me, and the sudden emptiness is a physical ache.
I'm left sprawled on the bed, my body trembling, my own arousal a slick, wet ache between my legs.
He lies down next to me, pulling me into his arms.
I go willingly, molding myself against him, my head resting on his chest.
I can hear the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart, a soothing, grounding sound in the aftermath of the storm.
I feel spent.
Used.
Satisfied.
And more alive than I've ever felt.
But I am also, still, unbearably turned on.
I squirm against him, my hips moving in a slow, desperate rhythm, seeking a friction that isn't there.
I can feel him smile against my hair. The smug bastard.
He knows exactly what he's doing.
He's leaving me like this on purpose.
"Please," I whisper, the word a ragged, desperate plea. "Sir."
He says nothing, just continues to stroke my back, a slow, soothing rhythm that's both a comfort and a torture.
I rub my thighs together, trying to ease the pressure, but it's no use. It only makes it worse.
"Sir," I whimper, my voice a choked sob of frustration. "Please."
I feel him shift, and then he's rolling me over onto my back, caging me in with his body.
He's still soft from his release, but he settles between my legs, his weight a delicious pressure that makes me feel cherished, possessed.
"Please what?" he asks, his voice a low, teasing murmur.
I glare up at him, my eyes wet with unshed tears. "You know what."
"I want to hear you say it," he says, his thumb stroking my cheek. "Tell me what you need."
The fight is gone.
There's nothing left but the raw, desperate need.
"I need to come," I whisper, the words a humiliating, liberating confession.
He adopts a considering look on his face. "Well, technically, you don't need to come."
I whimper in frustration.
He leans in, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to my lips.
"But you want to," he says, a statement of fact. "And I want to watch. Taste. Eat."