Chapter 9 #2
His tongue is a thick, hot muscle, lashing against my swollen clit with a punishing rhythm. I claw at his shoulders as he drinks my juices, the sound of his wet, rhythmic licking filling the room.
He stands up, his breathing a harsh, jagged growl. He doesn't bother with finesse; he shoves his jeans and boxers down in one violent motion, kicking them away. His cock springs free—a thick, vein-corded pillar of angry, engorged muscle that throbs with his heavy heartbeat, glistening with pre-cum.
"Look at it, Tiffany," he commands, his voice a low vibration that rattles my bones. "Look at what you do to me."
Before I can even gasp, he grabs my hips with hands like iron manacles and flips me, shoving me face-down onto the mattress. He looms over me, the scent of leather, sweat, and pure, unadulterated male musk filling my senses.
"Mine," he snarls, his hand reaching around to grip my throat as he guides his head to my entrance.
He thrusts home, his entire length burying itself inside me in one lung-emptying drive that makes the head of his cock bottom out against my womb.
I scream, my body bowing as I am stretched to the point of breaking, the wet, slapping sound of his hips driving against my thighs and ass echoing through the room.
I am completely occupied, filled to the absolute brim by his thick, pulsing weight.
I shatter, my soaked pussy convulsing as my juices spill over his thick shaft, and seconds later he roars, his body tensing as he buries himself hilt-deep to flood my womb with his hot, thick seed, marking the deepest part of me as his territory forever.
He holds me there, pinned and occupied, until every drop of his claim is inside me.
Slowly, Blake withdraws. The sound of his cock sliding out of my over-stretched pussy is a wet, heavy pop that leaves me feeling staggeringly hollow. I let out a broken whimper at the loss of his weight, my inner walls still twitching, trying to milk a phantom presence.
He doesn’t let me collapse.
"Stay still," he commands, his voice a jagged edge.
He leaves the bed for only a moment, his massive, naked form a silhouette of scarred bronze in the moonlight.
I watch through heavy lids, my body humming with a bone-deep ache.
He returns with a basin of warm water and a soft cloth.
This is the monster's aftercare—methodical, silent, and intensely possessive.
Blake sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls my hips toward him. I am too weak to resist, my thighs trembling as he spreads them wide. He doesn't look away from the mess he’d made of me—the white streaks of his seed drying on my skin, the swollen, angry red of my labia.
He begins to clean me. The warm cloth is a shock against my sensitized skin. He is shockingly gentle, dabbing away the fluids with the same precision he used to polish steel. His eyes are fixed on my pussy, tracking the way it continues to weep his cum.
"You're so wide for me," he murmurs, his thumb grazing my swollen clit just enough to make me jump. "I've stretched you so good, Tiff. You’re going to be sore tomorrow. But I'll take care of that, too. I'll take care of everything."
"Blake," I breathe, the heat rising in my cheeks again.
"I told you," he says, dropping the cloth and leaning over me, his hands pinning my wrists to the pillows. "I’m not just a protector. I’m a brand. I want you to remember the feel of my cock every time you close your eyes."
He kisses my forehead, a lingering, protective touch that feels like a vow. "Ramon is in a hole he’ll never climb out of. The bakery can be rebuilt. But you? You’re the only thing that matters."
He pulls me flush against his side, my head resting on his chest, the steady, powerful thud of his heart a lullaby. For a long time, we just lie there in the charcoal sheets, the silence of the mountain perfect and absolute. I feel safe. I feel eternal.
I think he is done. I think the night has finally surrendered to sleep.
Then, I feel it.
The heavy, rigid length of his cock begins to stir against my hip, growing thick and demanding once more.
Blake shifts, his hand sliding down from my waist to the damp hair of my pussy.
He doesn't just touch me; he hooks two fingers inside my still-aching entrance, stretching the sensitive walls again.
"Blake?" I gasp, my breath hitching as the fire flares back to life in my gut. "You... you just..."
"I told you I was an addict, Tiffany," he growls into my ear, his teeth nipping the lobe. "And I haven't even started on the second half of your education yet."
He sits up, pulling me with him until I am on my knees in the center of the bed. He reaches for the small, heavy wooden box he keeps on the nightstand—the one I’d noticed but never asked about. He opens it, and the moonlight glints off something cold and metallic.
Not a rose this time.
Two heavy, hand-forged steel cuffs, lined with soft black leather, connected by a short, brutal length of chain.
"I made these for you, too," Blake says, voice thick with emotion, the darkness of his eyes devouring me. "The rose was for the baker. These are for the woman who belongs to a Gunnar. You said you wanted to forget everything but me."
He snaps the first cuff around my right wrist, the heavy click of the lock sounding like a final sentence.
"This next lesson is about learning how to stay open for me, Tiff," he rumbles, reaching for my other hand. "And I don't plan on letting you close your legs until the sun is high over the ridge."
My pussy throbs, a violent, needy ache hitting me as he locks the second cuff, binding my hands in front of me. I look up at him—my monster, my husband, my owner—and realize that the night is only just beginning.
"Now," he commands, his hand wrapping around my throat to tilt my head back. "Tell me you're ready to be used."