Chapter 8 #3
He continued, pushing the orgasm further, the tongue insistent, the fingers ruthless, the thumb pressing at the ring, opening me, so that as the climax crested and broke I felt, for the first time, the stretch and the want in the same instant.
I was coming and begging and shuddering, and cared nothing for the noise or whether the city outside heard it, because it was mine, it was his, it was for us.
He drew back.
He looked up at me, face wet with me, eyes gold and wild.
“You want it again?” he said, a dare.
I nodded, frantic, and he laughed—a bright, delighted sound I had never heard from him, not in any of our time together.
“Greedy,” he said. “Good girl.”
He rolled me onto my side, then behind, so I was on my knees, ass high, head down on the wine-red blanket.
He spread my thighs, wide, and brought his mouth to me from behind.
Licked up the seam of me, then at the clit, then, at last, at the rim of my ass.
He worked the tongue there, the spit and the heat, until it opened for him, until I was shivering and pressing back, needing it.
He used a finger, then two, to open me. He worked them deliberately, then faster, then crooked them just so, so that I was full and stretched and desperate for him.
When I was shaking, he drew back and reached for the table by the bed.
There was a plug there.
It was black, short, thick at the base, the kind of thing owned by someone who had never apologized for a want.
He showed it to me, let me see, let the anticipation build.
He coated it with oil, thick, then pressed it to the entrance.
“Ready?” he said.
“Yes, please, Daddy, please, please—”
He pushed.
The stretch was so sharp I almost cried, but the bond caught it, turned it, rewrote the pain as want, and the plug slid in, and the fullness was like nothing I had ever felt. It locked in place, sealing me open.
He kissed the small of my back. Licked the oil and the sweat from my skin.
He turned me again, so I was on my back, the plug in me, legs wide.
He looked at me, opened for him.
He said, “Perfect. Beautiful.”
He knelt above me, his cock in his hand, the head wet, the length of him flushed dark and bronze.
He lined himself up at my pussy.
He pressed in by degrees, the width of him driving the plug deeper, and I moaned, a high, ragged noise I had not known I could make.
He fucked me deeply and deliberately, the fullness in my cunt and my ass meeting, multiplying. He held my jaw as he did it, the thumb at my lips, forcing my mouth open for his tongue. He kissed me, rough and possessive.
The bond at my wrist was a live wire, the mark at my breastbone an ember.
He fucked me, and I took it, and every thrust pushed the plug harder, and every clench of my muscles made him groan, and the feeling was so intense, so complete, I thought I might never stop coming.
He let me, when the time was right, he let me come on his cock, then pulled out, and knelt at my ass, and removed the plug.
He spread me carefully, so I could feel the air, the want, the absence.
He lined up at my ass.
He said, “Will you let me in, precious one?”
“Yes, Daddy. Please. Please fuck me there, please—”
He pressed.
The head went in, the pressure intense, but I was so slick, so open, that the pain was gone, replaced by a wild, raw pleasure. He pushed deeper, then pulled back, then deeper again, stretching me with every stroke.
He held my hips, anchoring me, the grip so firm it left marks.
He fucked me, steady, deep, every inch of him a new promise, a new claim.
I could feel everything: the fullness, the slide, the steady work of him opening me for more. I wanted it. I needed it.
I said, “Harder,” and he obliged, picking up the rhythm, slamming into me, filling me.
I said, “Faster,” and he did, the sound of it echoing off the walls, the smell of sex and sweat and oil everywhere.
I said, “I deserve it. I deserve everything.”
And the bond at my wrist went nova, the light spilling out of me, into the room, into the cracks at his jaw, his throat, his hands.
I came, so hard it went white.
He fucked me through it without breaking rhythm, the whole of him in me, the fullness at the edge of pain and pleasure, and as I peaked, he came, too.
The heat of it. The fill. The knowing that it was not just a body, not just a fuck, but a contract, a promise, a vow to never, ever, be anything but wanted again.
He let go my hips, and I collapsed onto the bed, ass in the air, forehead to the blanket. He draped his body over mine, the sweat of him mixing with the sweat of me.
He whispered, “You are my queen.”
I whispered, “And you are my king.”
He kissed my spine, one vertebra at a time, from top to base.
I rolled over, eventually, and pulled him to me, and we lay face to face, the hush of the city complete, the only sound the measured, exhausted, happy breathing of two beings who had nothing left to hide.
We lay there, for as long as we could.
He said, “Will you rule with me?”
I said, “You know I will.”
And I meant it.
The throne would be ours.
The city would be ours.
The world, or whatever was left of it, would be ours.
And in the hush, in the gold, in the perfect, wanton, filthy joy of it, I knew I had never, in any age, been so alive.