CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #2
His palm meets my ass with such a swift and stinging spank that it knocks the breath out of my lungs. And yet even with the burn searing my bones, I wiggle for an encore on the other side.
He chuckles and delivers a scalding prickle to mirror the first, the smack of flesh meeting flesh resounding throughout his room. “You need to move your lines too, darling.”
“I’m not …” I trail off because he means my obstacles—anxiety about other women or the future or my family. I suppose that is the same as his lines—the age issue, my reason for being here, and my employment.
Move them. For tonight.
Two more rapid spanks to my sore tissue on each cheek remind me that I haven’t thwarted my self-imposed barriers while he growls something like, “The sight of my handprints blooming on your skin is intoxicating,” and something else about keeping my flesh marked that I can’t quite make out over my own hammering heartbeat, but then I feel his staggered breathing calm and his composure return.
“Did it register when I told you it was only you?” He licks a path along my center, his fingers singeing my goose-bumped flesh.
How the hell is anything supposed to register like this? All the blood in my body is divided between my face, my pussy, and my backside.
“Axel, I don’t … what?” My limbs are trembling, my arousal seeping out around the edges of that scrap of fabric masquerading as panties.
He bypasses it, plunging two fingers into me as he consumes every drop. He sucks and laves and pulls on the panties so they twist my clit in a pressurized vise, and stars streak my vision.
“So sweet. Like fucking dessert,” he drawls in a low roar between ravenous licks. “Must be all those goddamn cherries.”
That would make me laugh if I wasn’t so lightheaded.
His scruff tickles my thighs, and his teeth nibble the tender, fiery flesh near my opening, and his choppy breaths fan me until I’m a drenched and heady mess.
My bare breasts scrape the sticky leather, adding another dizzying sensation. Until I am gone.
I mumble nonsensical musings that might be unintelligible to him, but in my mind, it’s nothing but please and more and so good. My body moves on instinct again, rotating my hips for more friction, unabashedly riding his hand and tongue and enhancing the fabric clamp around my clit.
I push my face into the chair and wail the moan of all moans.
“That’s it,” he coos. “So good for me.”
His voice is sandpaper and satin, and it glides over my skin like baby oil on a sun-soaked beach, a smooth scorching as the golden rays sear their mark.
His fingers never abandon their tantalizing rhythm. His mouth never forgoes its explorative mission. His groans of approval never cease to shoot to my core.
My orgasm rockets through me, my muscles tightening and my knees weakening until I’m balancing myself on Axel’s face and he’s clutching me with a commending growl.
I shake and shudder, screaming into the leather until I’m hoarse and raw and so blissed out.
It reaches places climaxes have never gone—my veins and pores and the ventricles of my heart, as if every molecule of my makeup senses a shift. His mark on me.
What the hell was that?
I’m panting and floating down when he gingerly lifts me, setting me upright in the chair and tearing my panties off. He orgasmed me stupid because I’m thinking a lot of things that I can’t muster the brain cells to utter. Not complex thoughts. Most hover around, What now?
And he answers that for me by staying on his knees, throwing my legs over his shoulders, shimmying his hands beneath me, and meeting my swollen core with a languid stroke of his flat tongue. He dives in, consuming every drop of my arousal like a man who’s been fasting, parched and insatiable.
I wince and writhe, doubtful I can take another—not his brand of climax that strips me of all my faculties.
My heart thunders against my sternum and eardrums and temples when I insist, “I can’t.”
“You’ve got another,” he rasps in that authoritative tenor of his. Though there’s no masking his on-the-verge-of-losing-it drunkenness.
What would it take to make him feral and crazed?
His tongue disappears inside me, and the sight is so damn erotic that a salacious whimper escapes me. My hips buck, and my clit rejoices, declaring the veracity of his claim. He nips at it, and a spike of sensitivity, which is both abrasive and satisfying, racks through me.
Even though I’m halfway to another climax, I can see how hard he is, and it doesn’t seem fair. I want him to feel good, to come, to know I can do that for him. “Let me take care of you.”
He shakes his head, but glances at his watch and reconsiders. “We might have time for that, but you owe me at least one more.”
Oh, that’s right. He has somewhere he has to be.
He thrusts three fingers into me, stretching me and filling me while his mouth peppers playful pecks against my heat, coaxing me back to the edge. It’s such a tight fit—agony and ecstasy crammed together.
He’s still fully dressed while I’m naked and splayed before him with the illuminated city surrounding us and his family beyond the door. He pumps into me so vigorously that my breasts bounce and my stomach muscles contract and the sloshing sound of my arousal permeates the room.
My involuntary moans, proclaiming the height of my climb to the summit, become so clamorous that he shoves two fingers from his free hand into my mouth until I suck those on his silent command. He keeps me quiet and tests my gag reflex, all while caressing that coveted spot inside me.
“You are right to assume I want you to submit,” he says, his sapphires planted on me with a wicked enjoyment of my tortured pleasure. “And I’m not opposed to utilizing pain, but I far prefer to offer rewards and incentives. Sometimes, those things align.”
Rewards? Incentives? Maybe next time really is a possibility if he’s telling me how he does things. And the mere prospect has me gyrating into his hand and mouth and teetering on the ledge of a blissful cliff.
I murmur against his finger gag, announcing my impending peak.
The hand inside my pussy whips out to smack my clit with a delectable sting that melds pain and pleasure before he plunges back inside me. Rough and relentless.
That does it. I suck and groan around the fingers in my mouth, coming like I’ve never come before. A violent surge of tranquility.
My vision clouds, a vignette haloing the man bestowing an otherworldly expedition. Losing all modesty, I fist his hair, gluing his mouth to my cunt as my back arches, my quivering legs hooking behind him for more leverage, my eyes watering from the intensity.
A euphoric tempest with a galvanizing charge lifts me up. And every fiber of my being, every cell, every hair on my damn head heeds the contradictory sensations ripping through me.
Rigid to relaxed.
Stretched to slack.
Alone to held.
I’m flying and floating and soaring and shaking. And baffled at how he touched places that were frozen, iced over by a life of cold resolve to always carry a stone. It kills, or it rescues, depending on how you view it, but it’s heavy all the same.
“Fuck,” he hisses, watching me intently between feral samplings. “The whole goddamn room glows when you come. So pretty.”
His praise trickles down my spine like hot wax, decimating any remaining chill.
He’s gorgeous—his eyes molten and black and his scruff glistening with my arousal.
I blink at him, at a loss for words, so blown away by his generous intimacy that I just want to hold him.
To help him carry whatever stone is weighing him down.
But I know that’s not what this is, and I don’t want to send him running.
So, I pull my legs off his shoulders and slink to the floor with him, cupping his balls and dragging the heel of my palm over his erection to the melody of his untethered groans.
“One night.” I don’t phrase it as a question because I can’t bear to appear needy, but I hold my breath that he’ll correct me.
He studies me for a beat, staring at my lips again, before confirming my fear. “Yes.”
“Then I can’t leave here without having you in my mouth, Mr. Noire.”
He stands, peering down at me and scratching his jaw in indecision, either about the time commitment or some line he’s refusing to ignore. The wet spot on his pants indicates a clear direction, but his internal debate ensues.
Unwilling to part ways without having a chance to ingrain myself on him the way he did for me, I bite my lip and bat my lashes, not above playing into his dominant fantasies. “Surely, I’ve earned a taste, sir.”
His eye crinkles appear right along with his chuckle, and it tickles my throat with a fondness I need to be wary of.
“You coming so beautifully for me earned you just about anything you want. I wish I had all night.” He smooths my matted hair away from my face and cradles my chin. “Wait here for me.”
He disappears into his bedroom, and I stay put. Naked and on my knees.
Humiliation has my cheeks aflame.
Part of me frets that I’m being manipulated or going soft or that Axel is a weakness I can’t overcome.
In the ten years I’ve been an assassin, I’ve faced every type of man in the underworld.
None have defeated me. I’ve held their last breaths and their secrets and hoped their soul didn’t cart those sins into the next life, and then I carried on.
But with eyes that sparkle like an evocative ocean, power that emanates from a penthouse family night, and perception that sees me instead of my shadow, I am disarmed.
Seconds later, he returns with an expression that is the last snow dissolving into green pastures. And a rectangular leather throw pillow.
He drops it on the floor, with its hefty, threaded seam facing up. “Straddle that for me, darling. Ride it while I fuck your throat.”
My mouth waters.
And just like that, I’m a slut, at his service.