Chapter 8
I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
I’ve done this before. I’ve danced for him multiple times. Either to make him jealous or when he was pretending to be Shepard.
But this is the first time I’m dancing when I know it’s him and I’m doing it for his pleasure. I’m doing it without any ulterior motives or agendas. I’m doing it because I want to do it and he wants to see me do it.
So of course the dress I choose to wear is that same white dress and those fake wings that he saw me in that first night. That I brought them with me on this trip should’ve been indication enough—again—that my engagement should never have happened, but it did and I’ll deal with it later.
Right now, I need to go out there—I’m in the bathroom—and dance for him.
I press a hand on my stomach—for some reason, my bare finger feels heavier and throbby—and blow out a breath. Then I open the door and step into the room. Which is bathed in a yellow light. I realize he’s turned out all the lights except the lamp on one of the nightstands.
I stare at that lamp for several seconds.
Because for some reason, I can’t look at him yet. For some reason, I’m shy. I know he’s there. He’s on the bed, propped up on the pillows. That much I could gather as soon as I stepped out, but actually looking at him is proving to be harder than I thought.
Closing the door behind me and keeping my eyes on my feet, I walk in farther. As if on stage, I come to stand in the center of the room, a few feet away from the foot of the bed. I should probably look up now. But still, I keep my eyes on my red-polished nails and wipe my sweaty palms down my thighs.
“Eyes on me.”
My heart is beating so loud that I don’t know how I heard him over the din. But I did and before I can give it any conscious thought, I look up.
And oh my God.
Oh my God, oh my God, he’s naked.
He’s…
Well, no.
He’s not naked. I spoke too quickly. Because he does have his jeans on. They’re dark blue bordering on black, just for the record, and they’re still there, molded over his legs. One bent at the knee, the other straight out.
His feet are large, and he’s got pretty toes. Just, again, for the record.
He also has his shirt on. It’s a light gray button-down and the sleeves are folded back up to his elbows.
But.
But. But. But.
The buttons of that button-down are open. And not just the top two or three like when we were on that video call the night before my play, no. They’re all open. All of them. Every last one of them, meaning I can see his chest.
I can see all of his torso.
And Jesus, Jesus.
I think… I think I’m about to drool.
Well, I think I’m already drooling and my mouth is drying out at the same time. So I have to lick my lips as I take him in.
I start with his throat. I know it’s innocuous. But I wanted to start with something I’ve seen before and wouldn’t completely make me thoughtless. Because I have so many other things to discover.
So I look at the deep triangle of his throat. Those shapely but dense collarbones that mold into the globes of his shoulders that I can’t see right now but I know are there. I also know they are heavy and solid and full of strength. Not only because he carries so much on his shoulders, so many things that I don’t know about. But also, they’ve carried me. I’ve used them to heave myself up on his body. I’ve used them to keep my balance.
I love his shoulders. I love them so much.
After that, we enter a dangerous territory because I reach his chest and as suspected through his countless button-down shirts and the coats he wears that he doesn’t even like, it’s massive.
It’s sculpted and densely packed with muscles.
In fact, his pecs look like slabs of stone.
They look like his shoulders. That they can carry all the weight in the world and I decide to make them my pillow as soon as we’re done here. His chest is where I’m going to sleep tonight and all the other nights to come.
And then I lose all my train of thought, all the promises that I’m making myself because abs.
He’s got them.
That legendary six-pack men have. Those muscles neatly arranged in a tight, ridged ladder that I’m assuming all the girls want to put their dainty feet on and climb. That all the girls want to lick and squeeze and bite. All the girls want to kiss and leave lipstick marks on.
I’m not going to lie, just the thought of girls getting to do that to him makes me mad. It makes me want to find all those girls and scratch their eyes out. It makes me want to tell the world that he’s mine.
Mine and mine only.
And I will kill anyone who dares to look at him. I will?—
“If you’re plotting a murder in your head, I suggest you do that on your own time.”
I jerk and look up. “What?”
Now that I’m not distracted by his bare chest—that’s tanned and lightly dusted with hair; I just want to put it out there—I take him in as a whole. And I realize that I was right. All those nights I danced for him, I always imagined him sitting sprawled on the bed, propped up against stark white hotel pillows. I always imagined his thighs wide and his body taking up the maximum space in the bed, him all authoritative and dominating. Like he’s my king and I’m his slave girl.
While all that’s true, I completely missed one thing.
I thought he’d be all lazy and laid-back as I entertained him. But those words do not apply to him at all.
I mean, he should look all casual with his one hand resting on his bent knee and the other simply settled on his thigh. But they’re both fisted and they’re fisted so tightly that his knuckles are jutted out and leached of color.
“I’m waiting,” he tells me in a low voice, his chin dipped, his dark eyes glinting.
“It’s just…” I finally manage to say, fisting my dress. “You’re so handsome.”
“Am I?”
“Yes”—I swallow—“and I was thinking that maybe I should kill all the girls out there who think the same thing.”
I think amusement flickers through his features. But it’s dark and edgy and fucking possessive. Like he likes that. The fact that I’m ready to kill for him. And if this is what he likes, I think he’s going to love me.
Because I will do it.
In a heartbeat.
“And I’ll hand you the knife,” he says, his bare chest moving with an impatient breath, “when I’m done killing all the men out there who think you’re beautiful and want you for themselves.”
“But I only want?—”
“That’s not the point, though, is it?” He flexes his fist again, twisting it as if antsy and itching to fight. “The point is that it’s been a thousand years and I’m still waiting.”
And I’m done making him wait.
So another deep breath later, I go to my phone sitting on the coffee table to my right that’s all ready to go and hit play. Music fills the air and there it is: his turn.
I chose the song that requires me to spin a lot. That requires me to move my hips in ways I know he likes. He likes it when I writhe for him. When I move them in a figure eight. When it looks like I’m dancing against something.
A pole maybe.
But mostly against something that’s much hotter and I bet, thicker.
And throbbing and alive.
And maybe I’m not dancing against it but with it inside of me.
So I try to emulate that. I try to emulate how I’d rock my hips and twist them and arch my back as if I were riding his dick. I have zero experience of course, but I give it my best shot. I give it all I have. Because I’m dancing for the love of my life and I can’t let him down.
Although I do have to, a couple of minutes into it.
Because during one of my turns, I notice something. Him, getting even more on edge. As he sits up straight, away from all the pillows, his shoulders and spine rigid. His bare chest heaving with the large breaths he’s taking, his rose mouth parted. His bare skin that’s bathed in yellow light is all shiny with sweat.
But that’s not what gives me pause.
What gives me pause is the fact that he’s got his hand.
Right there.
In between his large, muscled legs.
And he’s got it exactly like he had described before. While he talked about standing at my door with his dick hard.
He’s got his hand kneading his dick.
Massaging it, pressing it like you press on a wound that’s painful and throbbing.
And big and thick and hard.
And I know his dick is all of those things because I can see it. Again, not all of it, no. Because why would he be so merciful as to give me a glimpse of everything that he is and everything he has. All I can see is that he has his zipper open, probably to let it breathe, and I can see the ruddy head of it peeking through the waistband of his pants.
And oh Lord, it’s shiny.
That head.
It’s juicy and angry and all red and oh my God, I fall. At the tiny glimpse of his dick, I stumble on my feet and come crashing down. My palms break my fall and I’m panting so hard and so loud that I think he was right.
That they can all hear me.
They can hear me all over this building, all over this town.
But I don’t care about that because I think they can hear him first. They can hear his loud breaths better than they do mine. Because his are noisier and growly and much faster than mine.
As fast as he probably is himself because as soon as I fall, he’s there.
While I’m still coming to grips with the fact that I actually fell, he’s already out of the bed and standing over me, his masculine feet, and pretty toes in my line of vision.
I look up just as he bends down to pick me up. But I don’t want to be picked up.
I want to be here, kneeling at his feet.
I want to be where his dick is. Where it’s close to my mouth.
And it’s so close. God, it’s so, so close like this and I can still see the slippery head of it. I also see dark curly hair through the slight opening of his zipper and holy fuck, I’ve never wanted anything more.
I’m going to go so far as to say that I haven’t even wanted him to kiss me this bad.
As bad as I want his dick right now.
So I grab his thigh, getting even closer to my promise land as I breathe out, “Did you like my dance?”
He’s still bent over me and at my words, he reaches out and grabs my hair. He pulls my head back and growls, “Did I like your dance?”
“Yes.”
“Does the fact that my dick is throbbing like a motherfucker and dripping down on the floor like a fucking faucet answer your question? So stop looking at it with hungry eyes and get away before I paint your face with my fucking spunk.”
He can pull me back from his dick all he wants, but I’m not letting go of his hard thigh. I’m not even looking away from it. How can I when it jerks at my next words? “I want to suck it.”
I hear him breathe out and his fingers tighten in my hair. “No.”
“But I?—”
“You’re not sucking my dick.”
I frown, hugging his thigh with both arms. “Why not? I’m good at it.”
“No, you’re not.”
At this, I have to look at it. “That’s?—”
His face is as flushed as his dick, sweat beading his forehead. And I do feel bad for him. I can see he’s on edge. I can see he wants me badly. But at the same time, I want his dick just as badly and ladies first, right?
“Because you’ve never sucked a dick before. So get the fuck up,” he rumbles, his eyes promising retribution if I don’t listen to him.
My belly clenches at his rough authority. “But you got to taste me.”
“Yeah, and you taste fucking divine.”
I blush. “Please. I know men like that.”
His cock jerks and his breath is loud. “And you know a lot about men, huh.”
I flex my arms around his thigh. “I?—”
He leans down further while at the same time pulls me up. Then, looming over my mouth, he says, “You remember the deal, don’t you?” He shakes his fist in my hair a little, making me gasp and moan. “And trust me, I’ve got no problem in dragging you to bed by your hair, kicking and screaming about how you want to suck me off first.” He pulls me up further that I have to let go of his thigh and hold on to the tails of his shirt. “I’ve got no problem in forcing your dancing legs open and eating that tasty cunt of yours while you’re bitching about how unfair I am for getting to taste you while you still haven’t gotten to taste me. So the choice is yours: you could either be a greedy little brat right now or you could quietly let me stick my dick in that sweet little snatch and let me make you my good little whore later. Either way, baby,” he growls, his eyes slitted and full of lust, “I’m getting in that virgin pussy tonight and making it bleed. And it’s going to bleed for me, trust me, because if there isn’t a ring of red around the base of my dick, then it didn’t happen. And it’s happening, yeah? I’m getting in there first because finally, fucking finally, it’s my turn. So what is it going to be: my greedy little brat or my good little whore.”
Both.
I want to say both.
Because God, I’m selfish.
But I gather whatever good sense I have and whisper, “The s-second one.”
Satisfaction crosses his features that he won this round but only for a second. Because it soon vanishes, intense possessiveness replacing it. Intense authority and hunger. And as he yanks me up and then makes me climb his body, I wonder if he’s so possessive and dominating right now, what’s going to happen when he’s done claiming me.
And why am I so, so looking forward to that?
As soon as our mouths touch, he starts eating me. And then two steps later, we’re on the bed. I feel the hot sheets—warmed up from his body—on my back and I realize that I still have my wings on. I completely forgot about the wings. While I’m absorbing that fact, I realize he’s pushing my white dress up and then he’s dragging my panties down.
And I guess I’m wet—I’m super-duper wet—because the level of it can be measured by when he throws them over his shoulders and they land somewhere with a thwack.
At which point I realize that I should probably stop staring at the ceiling and heave myself up on my elbows. I should probably watch him do all these things rather than just feel them by the tugs of my dress and the roughness of his fingers. By the groan he emits when he’s uncovered my pussy and by the way the bed dips when he settles himself on it, with his face between my thighs.
But just as soon as I make that decision, he starts eating me.
Like in the bathroom that night, he starts with my inner thighs. Sucking and lapping at my skin, slurping in all the juice. Again, it reminds me of a fruit or when you eat an ice cream cone. How you first go for the dripping ice cream, licking it with the tip of your tongue, letting the sweetness spread, savoring it before going for the real prize.
Or maybe he does that because I’m always so over full and so overflowing that he can’t help but clean me off in the places where I have dripped down before going for my pussy.
Which is messy, I’m not going to lie.
It’s so messy and slippery and swollen.
How did I not know how swollen it was?
It’s throbbing right now, all engorged and lusty. Like a second heart but instead of love, all I have is lust beating through it. And he loves the taste of my lust. I mean, I already knew that; he did just say that I taste divine. But still, I am shocked when he goes for my whole pussy right off the bat.
In the bathroom, he started slow. He started with my clit. He took it in his mouth and sucked on it like a little pearl and when I dripped because of his ministrations, that’s when he brought out the big guns and lapped at me.
But he’s got no such problem right now.
As he viciously sucks on my clit and pulls at the lips of my pussy. As he nips those lips and groans while doing so.
And honestly, I’ve got no problem either.
I don’t mind his tongue or his teeth or all the sounds he’s making. All groans and grunts and slurps.
I think that’s what does it for me.
That’s what makes me hornier and grip his hair and bear down on his mouth. That’s what makes me arch my back and moan loudly. As loudly as he said I do. Maybe even more because my pillow doesn’t have lips like that. My pillow isn’t hot and wet and oh so fucking good at eating me out. And when the damn bursts inside of me I arch so sharply that I touch the sky. I see stars and galaxies.
I scream.
And then I hear a rip through my own mayhem. But before I can figure out what that was, I feel that magic mouth of his on my tits. I feel him sucking my tits, vacuuming them in his mouth, drinking from them and, well… I think it was the sound of my dress ripping, but who cares.
He’s sucking on my tits with the mouth that’s all wet and slippery from my juices, and all is right in the world.
All is horny.
Him, me. His mouth on my nipple, my fingers in his hair.
His hot chest breathing over me, my shaking thighs wrapped around his hips.
Everything feels dipped in honey, sticky and sweaty. Everything feels dipped in glitter and bathed in red neon light, dark but shiny.
And I think he makes me come again.
With just his mouth on my tits.
I think this time when I do come, I’m rubbing my juices on his bare stomach. I’m rubbing my lust on his skin. Not that he needs it. He’s plenty lustful on his own. Because as soon as I come the second time and I’m blinking my eyes open, he moves away. He gets off the bed and I know what he’s doing. I know it’s here.
His turn at having me.
So I simply lie here, with my legs all sprawled, my dress hiked up around the waist and torn down the middle. While I’m watching his face, how dark and flushed it looks and how red his mouth appears, red and wet from the sucking.
He’s watching the state of me as he takes his shirt off, revealing those gorgeous globes of his biceps and shoulders. I was right—they could carry the weight of the world. They could carry me. And pair that with his broad chest and steely abs. I could make a home for myself on his body and would never need a roof over my head.
When his eyes reach the center of me, I whisper, “I look like a disaster, don’t I?”
He looks up, his eyes black. “You look like an angel.”
To prove his point, he glances at my wings.
Which makes me blush even more because on top of my torn dress and open legs, I’ve got wings flanking my body, making a mockery of me. “A fallen angel.”
His hands are on his jeans now and I stop my breaths—I wish I could stop my heart too—so I don’t miss anything. So I don’t miss the thing I so wanted to suck on but am going to have to wait because he’s taking his turn.
And when it comes into view, I squeak.
Now I know why I could see it through his waistband.
Because it’s big. Which is an understatement, but I’m not a writer. I only know how to feel and act and I’m feeling a deep clench in my belly. A deep spasm in my already fluttering pussy. Not only because it’s so big that it touches his belly button but also because it’s so thick that I know I will have to pop my jaw to get him inside.
I don’t even know how it can be contained within the confines of his jeans. There is no way it can be. Maybe he needs special pants for his special dick.
Plus, look at how dark it is.
As dark as the rest of his lust-flushed skin. And slippery. Thanks to all the pre-cum, I think. Even now I see a pearl of it oozing out of the head and dripping down the side, tracing that thick vein.
That I want to trace with my tongue.
And… oh my God, no.
He’s covering it.
He’s produced a condom from somewhere—probably from his jeans pocket or something—and he’s tearing the packet with his teeth and rolling the rubber down his length. That sexy teeth move aside, I absolutely do not like that he’s covering his cock up with latex before going inside of me. Because I don’t want anything between us.
Before I can protest, he grabs my ankles, pulls them to the sides, spreading my legs even more, and gets on the bed. His dick bobs and I imagine a drop of pre-cum oozing out but getting caught up in the stupid condom instead of plopping onto my trembling belly as he comes to situate himself between my thighs. Which wrap around his hips while I rub my heels on the hairs of his bare thighs.
“A pretty angel,” he says as he hovers over me, picking up the thread where we left it before I got distracted by his dick.
Resting my hands on his sculpted sides, I glare at him a little. “I can’t believe you put a condom on.”
He frames my face with his hands. “And a reckless angel.”
I scratch him in response. “I can’t believe I don’t get to suck your dick.”
His lips twitch. “A greedy angel too.”
I scratch him again and just because I’m angry, I say, “I can’t believe it took you this long to just fuck me when I would’ve let you do it a long time ago.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, you would have because you’re my angel.”
And I stop doing what I’m doing because I have to see this. Out of all the sights tonight, this one’s the most important, the most memorable.
Him chuckling.
Him looking so handsome and adorable while doing so.
Him looking like my dream come true.
All my anger melts away and I bring my hands up to his face, pressing my thumbs to the curve of his mouth. “You…”
His eyes go grave. “I know.”
“What?”
His fingers flex around my face. “I’ll be careful.”
“Careful?”
“I swear on my life, Dora,” he promises. “I’ll make it good for you.”
Oh.
That.
Virginity and all that.
Honestly, we’ve come so far and we’ve waited so long that it doesn’t even matter. That’s the last thing on my mind. In fact, the very first thing that’s on my mind right now is the opposite of that.
Which is what I was going to say before.
So I say it now, “I want you to make it hurt.”
He frowns. “What?”
“I want you to rip it. Like you ripped my dress.” Something passes through his face that looks a lot like regret and to stop it, I insist, “I want to bleed for you. Because if I don’t bleed, it didn’t happen, right? And I want it to.” All games aside, this is the truth and I want him to know that for sure. “I want it to happen. I want to lose it to you. I always did. You’re the one I’ve been saving it for and you deserve it the most. You deserve everything from me, Stellan. Everything that I am. Everything that I will be and?—”
He stops me with a kiss.
I know why. I know I got a little too emotional for him. A little too expressive and lovey-dovey. Especially when he’s trying to fix things. When he’s trying to make me fall out of love with him.
But again, I’m tired of pacing. I’m tired of not being who and what I am: a hopeless girl completely and irrevocably and undeniably in love with him.
So if he can’t handle that, then he’s free to break my heart and move on. He’s going to do that anyway no matter what I do. So I might as well be myself. I might as well be clingy and annoying and shower him with all my love.
Because he needs that.
This lonely, complex man needs my love.
All my thoughts of love, or any thoughts for that matter, vanish, though, when he moves and adjusts himself. And then a second later, enters me in one go.
He rips into me like I asked him to.
But I know not because of why I asked him to.
He didn’t do it to make me bleed more, no. He did it because it’s better this way. It’s better to do it in one go rather than prolonging the torture. And he knows a lot about it, doesn’t he? Torture. Suffering through it and doling it out.
And I know that because as soon as he slams his way in, he stops. He hugs me. He hugs me oh so tightly. He hugs me like I’m really an angel and he’s the devil who made me fall from grace.
He hugs me like he will never let my dead body go.
He hugs me like he will never let me go.
And years later, I won’t even remember the pain. I won’t remember the blinding flash of it and how I jerked under him. I won’t remember how I scratched his sides or how I moaned so loud that I almost broke the windowpanes and let the winter in.
This is what I’ll remember, him hugging me with concern and despair.
And something that feels a lot like the thing he can’t feel: love.
I will remember how he called me baby and sweetheart over and over and told me that it’s going to be okay. That he’s sorry but he’ll make it all better now.
And he does too; I’ll remember that.
He gives me time to adjust to his size, his invasion, and when I have, he starts to move. It’s very slow and gentle. They’re tender, his movements. And for all my talk of him ripping into me and making it hurt and bleed, I’m glad he does it that way.
Because holy shit, he is big.
And sex hurts, man.
The first time, it really does.
So I’m glad it’s with a man who’s so careful. Who knows exactly what I need in this moment. And who despite wanting to move faster, goes really slowly for me. And I know that he does because of how insanely he’s vibrating right now. How everything in his body is so clenched, how every muscle is standing in stark relief.
Yes, I’m glad it’s with him.
Like I always wanted.
And then when I want him to move faster, he does that too. When my pussy is all adjusted to his size and turns needy once again, his strokes fasten. They become deeper and faster and oh so hotter. They become so hot that I’m sweating with the pounding he’s giving me.
I’m shaking and shuddering.
My wings all fluttery at my back.
I’m all swollen and slippery.
And so, so in love.
With my Wildfire Thorn.
Seriously, though, people who call him cold are crazy. He’s as hot as wildfire.
And now I feel him in my stomach. I feel his cock thicken inside of me, his skin turning darker and even more heated, and I know he’s about to come. I know what those bunched up muscles mean and just touching him and kneading those hard muscles of his, I come.
I explode around him and he explodes inside of me at the same time.
But mostly, what I’ll remember about our first time is that through all of this, through a slow fuck and a hard pounding, through my orgasm that overcomes me and then triggers his own, he never once stopped kissing me.