Chapter 12 #4
She wraps my hair around her hand, pulls hard enough to send a shudder down my spine.
It interrupts my flow and I groan, arch into her grip, unable to resist. To be at her mercy like this is everything.
She tugs harder and I find myself looking into beautiful, brown eyes as Marlowe smears a thumb across my bottom lip, soaked with her.
I lean into her hand, and she cups my cheek.
“Fuck, Tee.”
I press a wet kiss to her inner thigh, rip the material down her legs and out of the way. “You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever tasted.”
She inhales sharply and it spurs me on. Using my hand to touch her means I get to see every microexpression that flits across her face when I tease her opening, sink my nails into her thighs when she gets too close to coming, and then curl my fingers inside her until she’s whimpering.
I take her to the very edge of what she can handle, until she’s practically sobbing beneath me, dripping down my wrist. I drink in every single noise she makes, aching to have her touch me, hoping that she wants to, but needing to draw this out as long as possible.
It’s insanity, and I can’t stop.
“Please,” Marlowe gasps, grabbing my wrist and pulling me deeper into her.
I wait until she drags her eyes open, goosebumps racing across her whole body, and looks at me.
Then I hold her hazy gaze, pump three fingers into her, and lick a long stripe over her clit.
She breaks in my embrace. Her back bows violently, nails like scythes in my shoulders, and she cries out her release.
I hold onto her, stay with her through her orgasm, lap up every last drop like sweet summer rain.
Only when she sobs from hypersensitivity do I sit back, taking in her shaking legs, her dampened skin.
Marlowe hauls me up and attacks me, licking at my lips and tugging at my belt.
“Can you taste yourself?” I ask against her mouth, helping her get my pants off.
“That is the last fucking thing I care about right now,” she snarls.
Marlowe flips me onto my back and straddles my waist; the evidence of her lust smeared against my skin like war paint.
I slide my hands over ample hips, her breasts, roll her nipples between my fingers, then cup the back of her neck and pull her into a searing kiss.
This time it’s slow, indulgent. Marlowe starts off impatient but melts into me, grabbing handfuls of my hair.
Sweat slicked skin and urgency means we end up lying side by side, and she hooks my leg until I’m grinding against her thigh, desperately chasing my orgasm.
I run my nails up and down her spine and she shivers in my arms, gasps into my mouth.
But I’m a mess, and I can’t stop moaning into hers every time we meet at the perfect angle.
I have to take breaks in between kisses so I can breathe, bite down on her shoulder to stop from embarrassing myself, then fall apart anyway when Marlowe sinks her fucking nails into me in retaliation.
Suddenly, she pushes me away. I freeze, removing my hands from her body, but she just laughs and throws her leg over my lap again.
She makes such a glorious image above me—chest heaving, eyes mischievous—that I don’t realise until the last minute what she’s planning to do.
She puts one hand on my stomach and leans back, exposing herself, wet and slick.
I’m reaching for her when she drags her fingers, almost lazily, taunting, through the heat of me.
I almost come right then and there, my whole body breaking out in a sweat.
Marlowe’s laugh is low and knowing and decidedly wicked. “My turn.”
I brought this on myself.
She starts slow, the barest of touches, teasing at my clit, skating over my labia.
The whole time, she watches me. Chin raised, she looks down at me like an empress from a bygone time, sure in herself and the power she holds over me.
There is nothing I wouldn’t give her in this moment, with her taste on my tongue and her talented fingers on my body, coaxing me along with a confident touch.
She increases the pressure, rolling her hips in time with her hand, and I think I might die from the combined sensation of her wetness against my stomach, her fingers against my most sensitive parts.
By now, I can’t hold back a single noise.
She plays me like an instrument, drawing out every motion with loving care.
Marlowe whispers filth to me as the need for release builds and builds.
I can’t parse all the words, don’t care, only know she calls me a good girl, and I want to be that for her, want to last until she’s ready to let me go.
When I reach for her, desperate to feel her running down my arm again, she slaps my hands away.
“My turn,” she repeats.
Settling for running my hands over her thighs, I knead and massage, mark and relish her.
She tries to stay stoic but she loves the bite too much and every time I press deeper, push harder, her movements stutter.
I suffer beautifully, terrified I’ve had all I’m ever going to, emboldened by the slip of Marlowe’s fingers on my clit.
She urges me on, giving me what I ask for, riding my hips to another orgasm of her own.
Foolishly, I close my eyes and let myself crest that peak.
She stops.
I wrench my eyes open, aghast, and Marlowe dares to smile innocently at me. “Let’s take it from the top, shall we?”
I die a thousand little deaths at her vindictive hands.
She edges me twice more, each time swatting my hands away from her core and promising that this time, I can come.
I believe her, delirious with need, breathless and repentant.
By now her touch makes my skin ache, and in the best way.
The third time, when I think I might suffer heart failure, Marlowe changes tactics.
As she builds the speed and my hips try to snap up, needing more, she watches me like a hawk.
Prey in her grasp, I can do nothing but wait, wondering when.
At the exact moment my pleas start to merge into one nonsensical sound, she drives the fingers of her other hand into herself and fucks us both at the same time. The feel of her, the smell of her, the sound of her—
My orgasm rips through me like a cyclone, devastating every inch of my body and frying all my nerves. It goes on for what feels like hours and leaves me in a boneless pile. I hear Marlowe follow, and moments later, she collapses over me.
Sometime later, my ears stop ringing, and I manage to peel my eyes open. Marlowe is curled into my side, her arm around my waist.
“I don’t like being teased, Tanisira,” she murmurs sleepily into my chest.
I couldn’t stop the laughter from bursting out of me even if I tried.