41. Levi
LEVI
The afternoon’s light shines between the cracks of Violette’s heavy, dark green drapes, revealing the forested view beyond.
Every facet of her bedroom is designed to mimic nature.
Even the legs of her nightstands end in delicately carved vines that reach all the way up to a tree-shaped lantern.
Her furniture is made almost exclusively of intricately carved wood, glass, stone, or marble in warm, earthen tones.
Being the covert Lord of the Rings nerd that I am, it reminds me of Rivendell.
It’s clear she’s put her heart and soul into this place.
I can’t help but wonder what other beauty she’d add to the world if given the right support—the right partner—to further flourish.
She’s put so much love into her home; logic would tell me that she’d put that same care and effort into anyone or anything she loved.
Namely, me, if I allowed her to.
Inspired her to.
My eyes scan the room, as my dream bleeds back—vivid and intense—into the forefront of my sleep-hazed mind, half expecting to find Somnus and his enormous wings haunting a dark corner.
He isn’t, of course.
Though calling it just a dream feels false. Especially when my reunion with my mother was so healing. When the peace I’d made with her and myself feels like a healing.
Even if I still can’t bring myself to give in to this soulbond between us.
All of it is too beautiful.
Too surreal.
Like having this seemingly divine creature in my arms and her tail wrapped needily around my thigh.
I’ve never even slept with a woman before.
Fucked, yes, but actually fallen asleep afterwards?
Never.
I obviously blame whatever it is she drugged me with, but if all of this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.
Despite the transformative, otherworldly events that have occurred in less than twenty-four hours, I am still just a man.
The more my mind stirs into wakefulness, the more ravenous I become.
My eyes devour every inch of her within my sight.
The pressure of my full bladder does nothing to coax me out of bed.
To risk waking her up, sabotaging this quiet space where there is no wall of unhealed wounds between us, leaving only shared breath and a skin-to-skin contact I never knew I needed.
A pressure at my throat draws my fingers to...
A collar?
My thoughts and breathing come to a halt as she gives a soft whimper, and I wait for her to roll out of my arms.
Instead, her ass wiggles until my cock—already painfully hard—is wedged directly between the cleft of her ass.
It takes all of my self-control not to rut against her.
And just when I’ve regained some composure, her back arches, driving pressure up my dick, before her hips curl inward, sending that delicious friction downwards.
My breath punches out of me, balls tightening with desperate need for release. Before my rational mind can stop me, my grip flexes around her hip I give a small, mindless thrust forward.
Violette’s response is a soft, needy moan that makes my heart—and my cock—fucking sing.
The image of slowly sinking inside her to the hilt, and I wonder what other pretty sounds I can inspire her to make.
“Touch me.”
The words are a whispered command, and coming from her mouth, the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. It takes a moment for my brain to reconcile the fact that I didn’t imagine them, and it makes my heart beat so hard it nearly dances out of my chest.
I shift my grip to trace a feather-light line up her hip, waist, to the tip of one breast; administer a firm pinch that draws a gasp from her lips, and ends on a breathy, “Gods, yes.”
Those two words are like gasoline to a fire, driving my need to claim this woman and incinerate every hesitation my mind conjures. Fingers skate back down her writhing body to slide between her legs. A primal urge only she can inspire consumes me.
My teeth sink into her shoulder, and I groan the moment my fingers meet hot, wet flesh.
Violette whispers a curse as one of my fingertips slicks through her entrance, sweeping back and forth several times before finally reaching her clit. Tossing her head back against my shoulder, her gives a needy thrust forward as the tension in her body increases.
Adjusting my cock, I press the top of my length flush against the wet seam of her pussy, and nudge between her thick thighs. My eyes roll in the back of my head the moment my cock meets wet, exposed flesh.
Her body immediately goes rigid.
Too much, too fast?
When Violette rotates in my arms, I expect her glare, but instead I find something far more intimidating.
Vulnerability.
“You will make me cum. You, however, do not get to cum. Do you understand?”
It takes conscious effort for my mind to process more than the words cum and cum.
I’ve never felt more like a dog in my entire life.
Thankfully, my hippocampus and prefrontal cortex prove to be more developed than an actual dog’s, and manage to recall Violette’s earlier words.
You’ve done nothing to earn my touch...
... A male who just takes whatever I will give without giving in return...
Determination swells in my chest. Rising to my knees, I guide her beneath me before dragging her to the edge of the bed.
“Your pleasure is my pleasure.”
Kneeling on the floor, I glide my palms across her inner thighs as I allow myself to admire the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.
Slightly puffy lips, delicate pink folds framing a tight entrance glistening with promise just for me.
The realization that this might be both the first and last time I ever get to indulge in her feels like a spear to the chest.
Sweeping my thumb through Violette’s arousal, I massage it over the hood of her clit. Violette’s hips twitch in response as she gives me a small whimper.
My chest aches with words that are murmured in awe.
“So fucking beautiful.”
Her delicate throat dips, and I can see a hint of her vulnerability lingering.
Gaze holding hers, I bow to lower my salivating mouth to her lower lips. Use the flat of my tongue to lick her from entrance to pearl.
The taste of her tears a growl from my chest as my hands grip firm palmfuls of each thick ass cheek to hold her more firmly against me. With long, fervent sweeps of my tongue, I lave every bit of honey she has to offer me before I focus my efforts on suckling and teasing her clit.
“Goddamn it, Vi. I need this pussy.”
I’m too lost in her to suppress my deep, growling moans of satisfaction, further heightened as Violette’s body gradually tightens and one of her hands lands on my head.
Her claws scrape against my scalp as if seeking to fist my hair, but my locks are shorn too short, so she settles for palming the top of my head, nails digging in.
I’ve never had long hair. It’s always been short, cut nearly to my scalp, but for her—if it makes her hold on to me, I’ll grow a fucking mane.
Violette’s curses are uttered in between each breathy whine and moan. When her hips hitch, back arching, I slip two thick fingers inside her weeping channel to firmly stroke against that spot I know will have her squirting in my mouth and down my chest.
Less than a minute passes under the ministry of my fingers before my ears are blessed by the telltale sloppy wet noises of her body preparing for a gushing release.
I need to coordinate it with her climax from clitoral stimulation.
Doubling the efforts of my tongue, I steadily flick across her bud as I suck.
Violette cries out, desperate for something to grip, and fists the sheets. Her hips thrust in tandem to the pumping of my fingers as her core begins to spasm—gifting me the pulsating squirts of her release that I greedily lap up.
“Fuck, yes, sweetheart. Give me every drop.”
When her gushing subsides, I ease her down from her climax with slow, gentle, circling passes of my tongue over her clit, before I proceed to lap up her release—whatever isn’t drenching my neck and chest.
Violette sits up on her elbows, a look of stunned wonder on her face as she stares down at me, watching as I continue devoting myself to kissing and licking every delicious inch of her.
Her voice comes out breathless with shock.
“What the fuck was that?”
The fact that she achieved orgasm in under two minutes tells me she hasn’t had her needs taken care of properly for too long. Perhaps ever. And very selfishly, I love the idea that I might be the only one who has.
The word is spoken on a smug, rough chuckle.
“Breakfast?”
Mumbling something in another language, she flops back down on the bed and allows me to continue my work.
I waste no time, returning to my feast, and she does nothing to stop me. Instead, her hips encourage me by rocking gently against my mouth, where I continue to devour her like she’s my sole source of sustenance.
That throbbing cord tightening between us flares to life, as if to affirm that Violette is exactly that in more ways than one.