3. CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
DEACON
It doesn’t take long for her to come. She moans, writhes, and gasps. Then, her spine locks, her body making the prettiest arch up off the bed. Her cunt tightens around my fingers and the vibrator. And she drips—fuck, she’s soaked—all over my knuckles.
I draw my wet hand from her body and bite her thigh. It sinks beneath my teeth, tasting like vanilla and my wife. She gasps, her hand falling to my hair and fisting. Pain sparks.
I release the soft flesh of her thigh. She whimpers. Head empty, I lick over the mark I left and give her another. I bite into the silky skin—not hard enough to break it, just hard enough to make my head buzz. She gasps, hair spread out, as she falls back, body rippling like a wave.
She cries out when my teeth sink into the delicate skin of her inner thigh one more time, tasting the sweetness of her skin along with her pain and pleasure. Her hips writhe, working against air. I slide my hand up over her stomach and pin her down onto the bed. Under my palm, I can feel the vibrator buzz deep inside her.
“No, you take it,” I breathe. “You needy, wet little slut.”
She moans, whimpering.
I slap the curve of her ass. “What do you call me?”
Her lips part. “Yes, daddy.”
I drag my tongue over the bite mark up to her cunt and flick the tip over her clit. Her sex is soaked and smells sweet and familiar. I run my nose over it, from opening to clit. I need her pussy all over my face, in my skin, running down the back of my throat.
“I’m going to fuck you because you were so good and you begged for it,” I say, sitting up between her legs. “Then, you’re going to lay on your back while I tie you up. Understood?”
Her lower lip trembles, and then she bites it. “Yes, daddy,” she whispers.
I grip her hip with one hand and the spreader bar with the other, lifting it up and over to press her knees into her chest. Her thighs tremor, tightening as she flexes the arch of her foot high. Her lashes flutter when I dip my fingers inside to pull the vibrator out and toss it aside. I spit into my palm and rub it over her pussy, wetting it so I can sink down over her and slip inside.
We both inhale sharply. From this angle, she’s so tight. Her inner muscles grip me, so warm, so wet. Our eyes lock as I lean over her, holding her legs up with the bar, and brace my hand against the bed. Then, I draw out and slam into her, hard enough that she yelps.
“Fuck, you take my cock, sweetheart. Take it all the way,” I breathe through my teeth.
Her eyes are huge, and she’s biting hard on her lower lip. When she releases it, there’s a pink mark. But she’s not safewording me. She’s just letting me pound into her pussy because she loves this—I can feel it in how soaked she is for me.
It takes less than a few minutes for my orgasm to spark down my spine. She feels it, and she grips me harder—goddamn, this woman has me wrapped around her little finger, both in and outside of the bedroom. My breath quickens. She arches her spine as I pull out and welcomes me when I slam back in.
Pleasure surges like a dam shattering. I push deep, bending down to kiss her mouth as I come inside her.
How many times have I done this with her?
Never enough. I could live a thousand years, and it would never be enough time to join my body with hers, to show her how deeply I love her and how badly I want her. Every day, in every way.
Our breath mingles. I kiss her again, this time gently.
“You stay put for a minute there,” I murmur, disengaging my hips.
She moans as I drag my cock from deep inside. I settle her feet on the bed and get up. In the dresser, I remove several lengths of soft rope and shears. Then, from beneath the bed, I take out the wooden frame we use for bondage some nights. It snaps out to form a smooth rectangle that fits her perfectly, framing her lovely body.
When I return to the bed, she’s laid out with the spreader bar keeping her thighs apart. Entranced, I pause to take in the sight of her cunt. It’s bare, lightly flushed, dewy with arousal, still swollen from being fucked into the bed.
I brace my knee and lean over her body. Her eyes flutter over me, fixing on the frame. We’ve done this plenty of times before, but we don’t do it often. Sometimes, after we’ve both gotten off, I’ll reach for the ropes. It’s a meditative practice we both enjoy, and she likes it as aftercare.
Leaning in, I kiss her knee as I unfasten her cuffs and set the spreader bar aside. Then, I lift her and lay her in the center of the bed, setting the frame around her body. Her palms go up, open to the ceiling in surrender. Her heavy-lidded eyes follow my every move as I bind each anchor point.
“Bring your feet down, bottoms of them on the bed,” I say.
She obeys, flexing her feet and settling them.
“Now, spread them apart. All the way for me. Good girl.”
Her cheeks go a darker shade of pink. Her legs are wide open, the sides touching the bed. I start by anchoring her thighs and weaving the soft rope around her body. It’s beautiful against her perfect skin, over the glittering lines of her chastity belt.
A long time ago, I looked through a seam in the wall and saw her undress for the first time. I thought to myself that she was like a piece of art.
I was wrong, at least partly. Freya’s body is less of a painting and more of the same brand of beautiful as the mountains, the rushing rivers that bring icy water to the lower lands, the flowers that pop up beneath snow, the dark slate gray of the mountains against pale blue sky.
She’s a wild beauty, my sweet beloved.
I wind the rope around her thigh, three lines, and anchor it. The swells of her soft body are as as beautiful as the wilderness she loves—curves, colors, soft as the petals of a flower, all bound up just for me to marvel over.
“You comfortable?” I ask, moving up to fold her arms into place.
“Yes, daddy,” she breathes.
“It feels good?” I cock a brow at her.
Her lips curve up. The trust in her eyes is earned, and it means everything to me.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I feel safe.”
I bend down, wrapping the ropes around and tying them off in a row of quick little rosettes that run from her sternum to just above her pussy. Then, I lean down and kiss each patch of skin between them.
“Deacon,” she whispers, barely audible.
I look up, resting my chin on the rise above her pussy. “Sweetheart?”
She hesitates, chewing her lip. I move up her body, cradling her face in my palm.
“I love you.” It comes out on a little breath.
Our mouths meet, my hand sliding down to lay between her breasts. Beneath my palm, her heart flutters. I breathe her in, taste her lips. We break apart slowly, and I tell her I love her back, my words skimming her skin beneath her ear.
“Now treat me like your whore,” she breathes.
I smile, withdrawing to sit up on my knees. “That, I can do.”