Chapter 4
If someone asked, I’d say dying is painful.
Death is not peaceful. They lied.
Death hurts.
Being in love hurts. Being in love with Stellan ‘The Cold’ Thorne hurts even more.
I’m about to push him away and leave, and Jesus Christ, leave for the last time because I’m never coming back when he decides he wants to say more. He squeezes my cheeks even more and tilts my head up. So all I can see is him.
His face. Still beautiful.
His eyes. Still molten and fiery.
“Because I’m Stellan ‘The Cold’ Thorne and you’re Isadora Agni Holmes. And you’re the only girl, the only girl in this whole wide world who has the fire to melt me. And you did, remember? You’re the only girl in this whole universe who has the power to make me break my rules and you did. You’re the only girl I will cross lines for. The only girl I will erase them for. The only fucking girl I will wreck and destroy my morals for and I already did that, baby. I already fucking did. And it’s not a good thing.”
“What?”
“Me, unleashed,” he bites out, his words, his look, his entire body intense. “Me, uncaged. Me, without rules and unburied under a six-foot deep layer of ice is not a good thing. It’s not a good thing that you can do that to me, okay? I called you a plane crash, remember?” Slowly, I nod, trying to understand what he’s telling me. “I called you a car crash, a virus, a disease. I’m that. Me. I’m a disease, okay? I’m a plane crash, baby. A fiery fucking plane crash. I’m that multi-car highway pileup, do you understand? I’m dangerous. Like you said. Look what I did. Look what I’m capable of. And it’s not even the worst of it, okay? I can do so much worse.”
My heart is pounding so hard that I’m shaking with it. I’m shaking with him.
God, he’s shaking.
He’s fucking shaking.
“What does that…” I grab hold of his wrists, his collar, his shoulders, everything I can possibly get to with my two hands and puny strength. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that the reason I said I won’t cross that line is not because you’re my twin brother’s girlfriend or his fucking fiancée. The reason I said I won’t kiss you isn’t because I have some high morals or unbreakable rules. The reason I said I won’t cross the line is for you. Because you deserve someone safe. Someone you don’t need protection from. Someone who cares about you the right way. Who knows what that word means. The reason I said I won’t kiss you is because I shouldn’t. Because I shouldn’t be your first kiss.”
It’s hot.
Everything is so hot and sweaty.
Everything is misty and slippery.
My cheeks. His lips. My eyes. His fingers.
His breaths. My breaths.
Everything is drenched with something. Drenched with my tears and my love and my hate. His torture and his desperation. His angst.
In the midst of all this, I whisper, “So will you…”
“Will I what?”
I look into his eyes. “Will you never kiss me?”
Something moves in them. He wipes my tears. He breathes onto my mouth before dropping his gaze down to them. “I will.” My eyes go wide and he continues, “But only because for once in my fucking life, for once ever since I met you, I want to make your eyes smile rather than cry. I want to make you smile rather than cry. I want to pick up the pieces of your heart rather than scatter them away in the wind. And I want to do it when you know it’s me.”
“Stellan—”
And then he does.
He makes my heart smile. He picks up the pieces because he gives me my most greatest desire: his kiss.
And I’m not going to lie, I’ve turned into a stone.
I’ve gone all still.
My brain is working, though.
My brain has too many thoughts running through.
His mouth is wet and he’s kissing me.
His jaw is smooth—except for the bruise—and he’s kissing me.
His mouth is hot and I want to grip his hair and he’s kissing me.
I want to bring him closer, and he tastes like cigarette smoke and marshmallows, and he’s kissing me.
His breaths are harsh and he’s kissing me.
I want to fly and I want to dance in a field with long stalks of grass because he’s kissing me. And then I want to make snow angels because holy God, he’s kissing me.
He’s kissing me. He’s kissing me.
He’s goddamn kissing me.
And I’m not going to kiss him back.
Nope.
That’s the thought I decide to focus on. Not the heat of his mouth. Not the taste. Not how wet it is and oh my God how fucking glorious this feels. How out of the world this feels. How relieving that it’s finally happening. That I won’t die, I won’t leave this earth without knowing heaven. Or that I could write a ten-minute song, an hour-long play, and a book of poetry based on the feel of his mouth alone, his taste, his heat and I don’t even like books.
No, my main focus is that I’m not going to kiss him back.
I know, I know I begged for this.
I begged on my knees for this. I beat on the ground. I punched the sky. I fucking lied and cheated and cajoled and cried to him for this kiss.
But that’s the thing.
He made me wait. He made me wait so, so long for this.
He hurt me so much.
So I’m just returning the favor.
I’m just going to stand here, locked within his embrace, frozen and unmoved.
Cold.
Colder than winter.
He can envelop my mouth into his all he wants—the very first thing he does when he puts his mouth on me—and he can suck on me like he’s sucking on a piece of fruit. I’m not going to budge. He can suck on me like I’m a peach from down south or a strawberry from up north. He can suck on me like I’m a slice of watermelon sprinkled with sugar. I’m not going to move my mouth against his.
Not even a little bit.
Not even when he frames my face exactly like he would hold a slice of watermelon to his mouth. He actually cradles my cheeks in his big hands and tilts my head back. He stretches the muscles and the tendons of my throat until I’m craned up all the way and oh God, the roughness of his hands, the calluses from probably picking up too many soccer balls in his life, feels so wonderful against my satin skin.
And that tongue.
Oh my God, he’s lapping at me with his tongue.
And he’s sucking on my bottom lip at the same time.
I mean, how can he do that?
How can he do both things at the same time and how is it that I’m feeling it not on my mouth but also in strange places of my body. Like my inner elbows and the back of my neck and holy shit, in my belly button. All the things he asked photos of.
And while I’m trying to figure out the mystery of why his kiss on my mouth also feels like a kiss on other places of my body, he’s hard at work up there. He’s kissing and kissing and worrying my mouth, making it all swollen and puffy. Making it all tingly and hot. All red too, I’m sure.
In the back of my mind, I think that maybe touching up my lipstick was a waste of time. Not only because he ate it all but also because if this is how he kisses, I probably won’t need any lipstick ever. He can just kiss me and make my lips look pouty and pink.
In fact, I don’t think I will ever need another stitch of makeup either.
Because I’m pretty sure he can be the blush on my cheeks and the shine in my eyes and make beauty marks on my body with his teeth.
Which is exactly what he’s doing right now.
After sucking on me like a piece of fruit, he’s nipping at my lips.
I also think, I think, he’s not only kissing me with his mouth. He’s also kissing me with his fingers.
He’s eating me with his fingers.
Not only is he rubbing his rough palms over my smooth cheeks, but when he knows I won’t move and will hold my stretched-out position, he moves those fingers of his into my hair. He tunnels them deep and fists the strands. He fists and unfists them. He twists the strands, tugs at them. As if he doesn’t know what to do so he’s doing everything all at once.
Not to mention, his body.
He’s kissing me with his body too.
His heaving chest that keeps pushing into mine. His moving ribs that keep dragging across my breasts that feel overfull and swollen. Just like back in that closet. My nipples feel plump and sore like he’s sucking on them instead of my mouth, but I shouldn’t be surprised because didn’t I already mention that I feel this kiss in every part of my body?
So maybe, maybe if I move my mouth a little, it would be okay.
If I part my tingling and sore lips, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. Because how many kisses would feel like that? How many kisses consume your entire being like that?
This kiss is one of its kind.
A kiss of cold.
A kiss of fire.
Besides, let’s not forget this is my very first kiss, so I guess it’s okay. And just because I’m grabbing hold of his strong, massive, sculpted shoulders—shoulders I used to dream about—doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him. Just because I’m fisting the collar of his suit jacket—the jacket that I also used to dream about and have one in my closet right now that I wear over my sleep pajamas some nights because I miss him—doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten everything he’s done.
I don’t have to love him to kiss him back.
Or at least I think so.
In any case, my thoughts that I was so focused on have taken a major dive in the last five seconds. Ever since I opened my mouth and he snaked his tongue inside. Or rather thrust his tongue inside and took over my mouth.
He took it and invaded it and conquered it. As he tastes me from the inside. As he curls and swipes his tongue. As he touches the roof of my mouth, tangles his tongue with mine. He even swipes it along the sharp edges of my teeth.
He goes for every corner and every cranny and he’s not gentle about it.
Why would he be?
Assholes are not gentle. And he’s an asshole in disguise.
Assholes are plunderers and conquerors and oh my God, so fucking masculine and dominating, and I just want to smack him and fist his hair and eat his lips back.
Especially when the moment I do all those things—I punch his shoulder and pull his hair and bite him back—he emits a war cry.
Or in this case his groan.
This needy and tortured sound he makes in the depths of his gut.
His chest. His throat.
All of which vibrates against my body.
All of which makes me moan in response.
And my moan is needy and tortured as well.
My moan is fucking horny.
Because God, I am horny.
And I just kiss him.
And kiss him.
And kiss him.
And keep kissing him until he remembers that we have to breathe too. We have to break the kiss and he has to rip his mouth away from me, and instead of heat and warmth and cigarette smoke and marshmallows, I taste… stupid air.
I drag a lungful of it as I say, “I… I’m s-still angry.”
His fingers on my waist tighten and flex—I don’t even know when he put his hands there because last time I checked, they were on my face—and he pants, “I know.”
“This d-doesn’t mean anything,” I tell him again.
He fists my hair with his other hand. “I know that too.”
“You’re not a plane crash,” I say next because I cannot, absolutely cannot, let him think that about himself even though he hurt me.
I don’t even know why he thinks that, but I can’t let him do it.
He huffs out a breath. “I am.”
“Or a highway accident.”
“I am that too.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say vehemently, automatically.
“You should start believing the things I say,” he says back.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I should grow up and stop believing in fairy tales.
He’s shown me enough times that he’s cold and cruel. He’s callous and calculating. He’s unpredictable like the fire.
Like me.
I flick my eyes over his face then.
His flushed cheekbones. His kiss-blown eyes, made even darker and more dangerous by that black mark around it. His rose mouth, all swollen and red and ruined probably as much as mine. And that pulsating bruise on his jaw that squeezes my heart.
I bring my hand down to his forehead and flick the strands that have fallen over his brows. “I ruined your hair.”
His own fingers swirl in my hair. “Fuck my hair.”
I look at the wrinkled collar and creased lapels. “I also ruined your jacket.”
“Fuck my jacket.” He waves away the comment, roving his eyes over my face. “Never like wearing them anyway.”
“So then…”
I trail off when I find the answer for the question I was going to ask. Instead, I fist his lapels again. “You do it for me. You wear your jackets for me.”
“Yeah.”
“Was it your jacket?” I ask then. “The one Shepard put on me that one time.”
His jaw tics. “Yeah.”
My heart clenches.
There are so many things, so many, many things he did and said that I hadn’t known until now. So many little pearls and gems hidden under the treasures of things he said to me these past weeks. That I know I’m going to keep finding for days to come.
“Is that when you started wearing your jackets?” I ask. “Because you didn’t have one on the first night I met you.”
“Yeah.”
“Because my dresses are always short?”
“Because their eyes are always filthy.”
“I wore this dress for you,” I confess.
“I know.”
“To hurt you.”
He looks into my eyes. “I know that.”
“It shows off those two dimples and my mole.”
The pads of his fingers dig into my bare flesh. “Along with the crack of your bouncy little ass.”
I moan lowly. “I checked to make sure.”
“Which is why”—he kneads my flesh—“you’re going to wear my jacket when you leave here.”
I want to say no. I want to stomp my foot and act all diva-like.
But I decide to let it go for now.
Just for now.
It doesn’t mean I’m still not angry with him, just for the record.
“Okay,” I give in.
“Good.”
“But let me tell you that you’re not my bodyguard.”
“Don’t really give a fuck about labels.”
“No bodyguard behaves like this,” I point out.
“Yeah, so then what am I?”
“The way you behave?” I raise my eyebrows. “My daddy.”
My eyes go wide at what I just blurted out.
And his flash.
Then, squeezing my waist and fisting my hair, “So then that’s what I’ll be. I’ll be your bodyguard, your protector, your fucking daddy”—I shiver at that word—“if it means you will be on that bus the day after tomorrow.”
Oh, that.
I completely forgot about that.
“I—”
“Promise me, Dora,” he asks, all serious.
“It’s not really that bad. I?—”
“Fucking promise me,” he seethes.
And so I give in to that too. I give in to him because he looks so intense. He looks as if he’ll lose it if I say no. “Okay.”
A look of satisfaction comes over him.
It’s crystal and it’s clear.
Along with a look I’ve never seen before on anyone, let alone on him. It makes his features all sharp and cutting. His cheekbones even higher and his bruised jaw even more square.
Almost animalistic.
Possessiveness.
It’s possessiveness.
It says that I’m his. I belong to him. For now and forever.
Which also reminds me that that’s not true.
I’m not his for now and forever.
I’m someone else’s. His brother’s.
And the fact that I forgot that fact—the very fact because of which we kissed in the first place—is so fucking jolting to me. It’s so fucking jarring that I kissed another man because I got engaged and then forgot about the fucking engagement is…
Oh God.
Oh God.
Oh God.
I kissed another man. I kissed him.
“I’m…” I whisper, my left hand, the hand with the ring, unfurling on his chest. “I’m engaged, Stellan.”
I say the same thing that started it all, but my tone is different.
My tone is scared. My tone is small but full of guilt.
He notices that. He notices the change and for some strange reason, his possessiveness only increases. His grip on me increases too. His fists in my hair tighten. His chest ripples as if he thinks I’ll fly away but he won’t let me go.
“You—”
“I’m engaged. I’m…” I snatch my hand away from his chest and bring it up to my tingling, swollen mouth. “And I… You… My mom’s right, isn’t she? She’s right. She… I’m a slut. I’m…”
I have to be.
For doing what I did.
It’s not a surprise, but I also didn’t know I was capable of something like this. I have committed so many heinous crimes in the past. I’ve hurt Shepard so badly and out of the goodness of his heart, out of love, he decided to fix me and this is what I do the first chance I get.
“Hey.” He grabs my face, squeezing my cheeks. “Hey, Dora.”
“I’m—”
He squeezes them harder. “No, not one word. Not one fucking word in favor of that fucking bitch, all right?” My mouth parts, but he keeps going, “Not one fucking word. Or I swear to God, I’m going to go out there and I’m going to fucking choke her to death. I will suffocate the life out of her. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? I will end her godforsaken life for hurting you, for making you think you’re anything other than perfect. So not one fucking word or I will lose it.”
He will. I can see that.
So gripping his wrists again, I whisper, “But she said she’ll… She’ll do something, something bad to you and to him if I?—”
“I’d like to see her try,” he growls.
I grip his wrists harder. “He’s… He’s not going to like what we just did. He’s doing this to help me. He’s doing this because I told him I want to move on. I want to move on from you. From… He’s?—”
“And he will. He will help you. He will fucking help you. And for that”—he grabs me tightly—“I want to tear him apart. I want to beat the shit out of him but the fact that he loves you is his only saving grace. But that’s it. That’s all I can give him. He’s going to have to deal with the rest,” he says firmly. “He’s going to have to fucking deal with the fact that I stole a few moments of heaven with you because he’s getting you for the rest of his life.”
Is he?
Because look what I’m doing.
Look at what we’re both doing.
This isn’t the way to start a forever relationship. And while I still want to move on from this man in front of me, I don’t know if what Shepard is thinking is a good idea. I don’t know if marrying him is the way for me to get over this toxic love.
So at last I say, “I’m scared.”
Anger ripples through his features and he holds me tightly. “I will never, not ever, let anything happen to you. I promise you that, okay? I will take care of you. No one will hurt you. No one, including me and including your monster of a mother.”
He will protect me.
The guy who hurt me is going to keep me safe.
And I…
Why do I want to believe him?
I don’t want to think about that, though. Not right now.
So I reach up and put my mouth on him once again. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s not what I’m supposed to do, but I do it anyway. I kiss him and this time my only focus is his mouth. My only focus is kissing him back when he takes over.
My only focus is tasting him, touching him, feeling his hair, testing the strength of his shoulders. My only focus is climbing his body like a tree and I guess his only focus is making me climb it, helping me climb it because he does that.
He lifts me off the ground with his hands on my ass and wraps me around his body. My thighs go around his waist and my arms wind around his neck, and then I’m plastered against the wall. I’m plastered in between him and the wall.
All his hard parts are pressing into my soft ones.
And like the dancer I am—the dancer he’d called me either as Shepard or as himself, I don’t remember; all I remember is that I’m his dancer in the moment—I dance against him. Because he’s the thing I want to dance against. He’s the one I want to dance for.
And I can’t get enough.
I want more.
I rip my mouth away to pant. “I want…”
But trail off because kissing him is better. So I go back to that.
Until he snatches his mouth away from mine and growls, “I know what you want.”
To emphasize it, he fists the cheeks of my ass and makes me go up and down his hard abdomen. He makes me dance. He makes my pussy jolt and spasm.
“I don’t… This can’t be right,” I tell him even though I haven’t stopped my movements.
“It is,” he argues as he doesn’t let me stop them.
“You…” I fist his hair, planning to pull him away but only managing to bring him closer. “You s-should stop. We should?—”
He presses a hard kiss on my mouth. “Can’t.”
I plant a hard kiss back. “But, Stellan?—”
He fists my hair, dragging my head back and going for my jugular and sucking on it. “I made a promise.”
I arch my back, tilting my head to the side, giving him all the access. “What promise?”
“To take care of you.”
“But he said that too. He?—”
He licks the side of my neck and bites my earlobe. “Fuck him.”
I push at his shoulders again and again, only managing to writhe against him some more. “No, Stellan. He’s your brother. He’s… It’s his job. He’s my?—”
He looks up, his fingers flexing on my ass. “It isn’t.”
I’m panting as my heart pounds and pounds. “Stellan, please.”
He licks his lips. “No.”
My pussy clenches so hard at his refusal. “But, Stellan, that’s… I… I’m engaged. You just said that he’s the guy who?—”
“But you’re not married yet, are you?”
I shake my head. “But that’s really crossing a line and?—”
“It’s mine to cross.”
“No, it’s mine too. I’m doing it too. I’m?—”
“No,” he growls, something flickering in his eyes, something dangerous. “I’m making you do it.”
I freeze. “W-what?”
“Aren’t I?” he goes on. “I’m giving you no choice.”
No.
No, no, no.
He’s doing that again.
I won’t let him do it. I won’t let him make the same excuse.
I clutch his shoulders. “Stellan, don’t do this.”
He leans closer, pressing against my center. “I have to.”
“No, you don’t. Don’t make yourself the bad guy here. Don’t?—”
“But I am the bad guy. I followed you in here, didn’t I?”
I shake my head. “Stellan?—”
“I followed you in here, knowing you’d be alone. Knowing I could lock the door, lock you inside with me.”
“This isn’t right,” I tell him urgently even though I was the one who started this. “This is… You can’t take the blame. We can’t do this at all. It would really make me a slut and?—”
He squeezes my ass so hard that I have to finish on a moan, on a deep arch of my back. And then he squeezes it again, not that hard, but it still smarts, for good measure. Then, growling, “If you’re going to call yourself a slut, then you’d better change it to my slut.”
I go still. “What?”
He nails me with his gaze, his jaw hard. “Because I’m making you, aren’t I? I’m making you my slut.”
My entire body clenches with his words and I have to fist his shirt and curl my toes. I have to stop breathing for a second to let his words sink in.
“I’m making you my baby. I’m making you my fucking sweetheart,” he continues. “And I dare them to say otherwise. I dare the world to question me. I fucking dare them to tear us apart.”
Maybe it’s crazy, but I wanted to be his slut.
I wanted to be reckless and impulsive and insane for him.
“Yours,” I whisper.
“Mine,” he agrees on a growl.
“And are you mine?”
Something big passes through his features. “If I could be anyone’s, I’d be yours.”
My heart squeezes so hard that my eyes sting. “I always wanted you to be the one to keep me safe. I wanted you to be the one who puts a leash on me, who protects me. I wanted you to be my bodyguard, my daddy.”
But you hurt me…
His nostrils flare with possessiveness as he declares, as if he heard me, “And I will make it up to you. Until he gets you, you’re mine. Until you’re married, you’re under my protection, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His chest breathes out with relief like he needed me to accept that; that I’m his until I become his brother’s. “So tell me what you’ll tell them.”
“I didn’t want it,” I whisper.
And oh my God, oh my fucking God, I think I come.
I think I come just by saying those words.
Just by looking at his face when I say them.
All dark and flushed. All possessive and determined.
All cold and cruel.
So beautiful.
“Exactly,” he whispers back, bringing his hand away from my face and gripping my thighs.
My bare thighs and I jump.
I don’t even know when he got his hand under my dress because up until now, everything was covered down there. But suddenly, it’s not. My dress has ridden up and it’s gotten right there.
Right up where my aching pussy is.
I can see his dusky fingers over my honey thighs, gripping them roughly.
Tenderly.
Because even though he’s doing this to me, I also want him to do this.
“My daddy did this,” I say, fisting his collar.
“Yeah, he couldn’t stop himself,” he says gutturally.
“Why not?”
“Because”—he digs his fingers harder—“you got engaged tonight, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone, a motherfucking asshole, put his ring on your finger.”
I jerk and writhe against him. “But he’s a… He’s a good guy. He’s?—”
“Everyone who wants you is an asshole,” he growls. “And he gets to have you, so he’s the biggest asshole on this planet.”
I shake my head. “But?—”
“So he had to follow you, didn’t he, your daddy,” he goes on, cutting me off. “I had to follow you in here because I got jealous. Because your daddy needed to lay his claim on you. Because”—his eyes ripple with authority, with possessiveness—“you were his before you were someone else’s.”
God, yes.
Yes, I’m his.
My hands pull at his collar then as I twist my hips against his torso. “But I told him to get out.”
“He didn’t listen though, did he?”
“No.”
“That’s because”—he fists my dress tightly—“he saw how easy it was going to be. How easy it was going to be to get to that pussy.”
“Easy.”
“Uh-huh. Because you’re not wearing any panties, are you?”
My breath hitches. “I… This dress doesn’t really a-allow for them.”
A puff of breath escapes him, and he digs his fingers into my flesh for a second before stepping back and lowering my shaking legs to the ground.
He doesn’t let me go, though.
Keeping his hands on my thighs, he keeps my balance. He keeps me stuck to the wall and lowers himself on the floor. He goes down on his knees and slides the hem of my dress up.
“What…” I breathe out. “What are you doing?”
“Getting what I came for.”
And I have to grip his shoulders for extra protection because the more skin he reveals, the harder it becomes to keep standing. The more his hands, his large and scrape-y hands ride up my skin, the harder it becomes to breathe. And God, they are large. They are so, so large and dusky and strong looking against the backdrop of my soft skin.
“But I?—”
“He got on his knees for you, didn’t he? So it’s my turn now. He got to put his ring on your finger, so now it’s my turn to put my mouth on you. And believe me when I say, baby”—his eyes are pinned on his hands as they move over my thighs, pushing my dress up and up—“your daddy’s hungry.”
He’s watching as he goes up and up.
Until he’s right there.
Right where my pussy is, all sloppy and wet.
“And this dress”—he fists the hem—“this dress that you wore for him. You did, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“This dress is making him hungrier.” Looking up, he rasps, “It’s almost like an invitation, see? Come and get it, Daddy. Come and get my pretty pink pussy.”
I want to move. I want to writhe.
I want to hump the air, but he won’t let me.
He keeps my hips pinned to the wall and I curl my toes and clench my eyes shut against the wave of arousal. “But I… I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know. It’s just a dress.”
He hums and goose bumps rise up on my skin.
“So let this be a lesson,” he says, his thumb making circles on my thigh, still keeping my dress just a micro-inch away from where I’m aching. “Let this be a lesson that this is what happens to girls if they wear a dress like that in public. This is what happens when they show off their tight ass to anyone other than their daddy. This is what happens when they leave their juicy little pussy out, for all the world to see.” Leaning forward, he takes a whiff of my pussy but through my dress. “Let this be a lesson, baby, that this is what happens when you wear another man’s ring instead of Daddy’s.”
I jerk again or want to.
But I can’t because he won’t let me go.
So I tug at his collar, my body shaking, my voice shaking. “But I… Please, don’t?—”
“Don’t what?” he asks.
“I…” I swallow, all delirious with lust. “I want to be a vir?—”
I don’t know why I said that.
I don’t know why it even came into my brain.
We weren’t even going there, were we? He wasn’t even going to go there. But maybe I wanted him to. Maybe that’s where I wanted to go and oh God, no.
No, no, no.
That can never happen. That’s not going to happen.
Even if we play pretend like this.
Even if we make excuses to linger.
His chest shakes with a large exhale. His jaw clenches and it does it so hard that I feel like he will bust his jaw again, all by himself.
“A virgin.”
My belly is clenching, shuddering much like my whole body. “Please, Stellan. I… I’ll do anything. Just don’t?—”
“Don’t worry,” he says, his tone harsh and his face angry. “I’m not going to put my big fucking cock in your tiny little pussy tonight. You know how big it is, don’t you? You know it will hurt. You know your cherry will drip down the length of my meat and leave a blood red ring at the base of it. So I’m not going to fuck you where I can’t take care of you after. Where I can’t wrap you up in silk and soothe the pain with the softest cloth that I can find. Although I have to say that you’re always so hot for it, aren’t you? You always want more than what you get. You’re always so desperate, so fucking needy. Such a fucking slut. And the only reason I don’t mind is because the only man you’re a whore for is me, isn’t it?”
“Yes. For you.”
“So for that very reason alone, I’ll go easy on you tonight.” His fingers still straddle the line of keeping me covered and exposing me any second. “For that reason alone, I’m going to kiss your sweetheart pussy like I kissed your lips. All I’m going to do is eat you, drink from your cherry snatch. But I won’t breach her. Nothing will get into your wet fuck hole tonight, not even my tongue. For that very reason, Cherry Lips, your daddy will leave you a virgin for the wedding night.”
With that, he pushes the dress up then and exposes my pussy, so wet and sloppy and throbbing that my inner thighs are smeared and takes his first lick.