8. Lemon #2
Starting at the bottom, he slowly unbuttons my shirt, pushing the two halves apart and exposing my bare breasts to him.
To be honest, on the rare occasion that I’ve slept in the same bed as a man before, I’ve always kept my bra on.
My breasts are really too big to be allowed to just be free, but sleeping in a bra is basically akin to torture, and for some reason, I never even considered leaving it on when I got changed for bed tonight.
“There they are,” Atticus coos, dipping his face and pressing soft kisses to first one nipple, then the other.
“Slide this off,” he orders, tugging at my shirt until I lift my shoulders from the pillows and let him slip it off completely.
“Now these,” he says, sitting and dragging my pants down my legs and off my feet.
Once he drops my pajama pants to the floor, his gaze turns heated as he looks down at my naked body like he’s ready to devour me. “I think I promised to worship you some more, didn’t I?”
“Uh-huh,” I say dumbly, nodding slowly.
“Who am I, Princess?” he asks.
“Sir,” I whisper, suddenly hoarse at the sound of the title on my tongue.
“Your Sir.”
“My Sir,” I echo.
“Part your legs. Let me see.”
Unable to resist and unwilling to try, I spread my legs, watching his eyes heat as he waits for me to put myself on display for him.
“I can’t wait to hear you come,” he announces before he buries his face in my sex and my mind goes blank.
His two fingers pushing inside of me as his hot tongue finds my clit sends a shockwave of sensation barreling through me.
To be honest, it usually takes my body a while to warm up, but apparently, not with Atticus, because I can hear how wet I am as he laps and sucks on my clit while his fingers pump in and out of me, hurtling me toward bliss faster than I’ve ever experienced before.
Instead of embracing it, I find myself fighting the need to orgasm, not ready for this to be over so quickly. “No, god, Sir, no, it’s too quick. I’m not ready,” I pant, arching my back in a futile attempt to divert his attentive fingers and tongue from the spots that are setting my body on fire.
“Give me this first one fast and wet, Princess, then I’ll slow down and make you work for the next two.
I’m going to keep making you come until you pass out from the pleasure, then I’ll fuck you until you wake up and beg me for more,” he growls against my clit, the tremor of his words feeling like a vibrator against my eager nerves.
The moment his tongue lands on my desperate clit again, the hot, wet sensation becomes too much, and my futile hold on control splinters as I come with a pained cry.
“So fucking beautiful, Princess,” he praises, his frantic movements slowing to a drugging pace.
He keeps me teetering on the edge as he dips his fingers into my soaked channel before pulling them out and spreading my desire over my clit, then dragging a wet finger over my ass.
Over and over he fills me, then teases my clit and my ass until I’m covered in my own arousal and squirming each time he teases me with more.
“Atticus.”
“Who am I?”
“Sir, please, please,” I beg after long minutes of teasing that feel like an hour.
“What do you need?”
“To come. Please, Sir, make me come.”
“No,” he says simply.
“Please, please, please.”
“You told me to slow down, so I’m giving you what you asked for, Princess. You only get to demand things once, and now I’m in charge, not you.”
“Oh god,” I whine as he continues his slow ministrations until I’m so turned on, my body starts to make wet sounds, and every time he spreads my arousal over me, I feel it seeping between my ass cheeks.
“Please, please, please,” I beg, squirming beneath him, unable to keep still, desperately trying to find the angle to reach the release I’m now desperate for.
“Who am I?” he asks again.
“My Sir.”
“Yours.”
“Mine,” I agree, willing to say anything if he’ll only make me come.
“Has anyone fucked you here?” he asks, layering yet another swipe of my arousal over my asshole.
“No,” I groan, unable to help the way I arch into his touch. I’ve never had any interest in experimenting with anything to do with my ass, but honestly, in this moment I’m so desperate, I’m not sure I’d say no to anything he suggested.
“Hmmm,” he hums, breaking the rhythm he’s set to rub tight circles over my hole, the ring of muscle so wet and heated that it easily gives way when he exerts a little pressure against it. “How does that feel?” he questions as he holds the tip of his finger inside of me.
“Odd,” I gasp, trying not to bear down on his finger as my chest heaves and my body vibrates, unable to stay still.
Instead of moving his finger, he dips his face and licks at my clit.
Groaning, I arch my back, and his finger slips deeper as I push myself onto it, my body curving into his touch as I chase my release.
“How about now?” he questions.
“Oh god, Sir,” I whine, tilting my pussy toward him, desperate for his tongue on me.
As my pelvis tilts, I sink down even further on his finger, and the pressure of something inside of me there feels oddly nice.
He’s not moving. His hand is perfectly still.
I’m the one whose body is so desperate for release that I’m willing to push his finger deeper and deeper into my ass if it means I get his tongue on my clit again.
As I move, his tongue scrapes over the very tip of my clit, but it’s not enough.
Not nearly enough, so I sink down, pushing his finger all the way inside of me as I lift my core to his mouth.
The moment I’m close enough, he gives me what I need.
His tongue moves, licking and flicking at my clit until I explode, my body clamping down around his finger as I orgasm.
“There we go. So beautiful, Princess. You’re so fucking beautiful,” he praises, like I’ve done something good and not like I’ve forced his finger into my ass in an effort to get his tongue to lap at my clit.
The panting, wheezing sounds that are coming from my mouth while my chest heaves up and down are not at all sexy, and I wonder if he finds them as unattractive as they sound to me, but if he’s bothered, he doesn’t show it.
His finger is still buried deep in my ass, and the sensation is strange, more like a pressure than a pain.
It doesn’t feel…good, but it doesn’t feel bad either.
My body flops down to the mattress as the last aftershock of release shudders through me, and I close my eyes, willing my heart to stop racing. But before my trembling nerves can settle, the finger that until now has remained still in my ass starts to move.
With a slow, dragging motion, Atticus withdraws his finger almost all the way out, and a guttural whine slips through my panting breaths.
I brace myself for…something to happen when he pulls his finger free, but as my body starts to stretch, he pushes the finger back into me again, slowly filling me until his knuckles are pressed against my ass.
“Oh god,” I whimper.
“Who am I?” he chides.
“Sir. Sir. Oh god, Sir.”
“How does it feel?” he questions, slowly withdrawing until only the tip is still stretching me, then pushing his finger deep inside of me again.
“Strange,” I rasp, the words strangled by the feral noises I can’t seem to stop making.
“What about now?” he questions, as he pushes two thick fingers into my pussy, moving them in synchronization with the finger he’s working in and out of my ass.
“Oh fuck,” I garble, slapping my hand over my mouth to stifle the animalistic moans of pleasure that I can’t stop myself from making.
Instead of speaking, he chuckles, low and rough and perverse. He doesn’t need me to tell him how I feel because the proof of my enjoyment is echoing around the room, the sounds barely muffled by my fingers.
“Let me hear you, Princess. Let me hear how much you like it,” he demands when I bite down on the edge of my knuckle to silence myself.
His fingers start to move fast, pushing in, pulling out, then pushing back in again, hurtling me toward a second orgasm that feels like a tsunami building momentum in my stomach.
The wet, dripping liquid heat between my thighs and the unrepentant moans and whines of pleasure tell him everything I’m not coherent enough to say. But he doesn’t stop to gloat or try to replace his fingers with his dick.
Instead, Atticus locks eyes with me and smirks.
His arrogance shouldn’t be attractive, but it’s the thing that pushes me over the edge, and the wave of orgasm that’d been slowly gathering speed in my stomach finally crashes.
When I come, it’s with his eyes on me, silently reminding me that it’s him who’s making me feel this way.
That he made me come. That I’m splitting in two with pleasure because he wanted me to feel this way.
His gaze doesn’t slip away. Not when I arch my back. Not when my eyes fall closed, too blissed out to keep them open. Not when they snap open again when a second wave hits, or a third.
While I fall apart, he stays still and observant, a calm in the storm, a constant presence, watching and keeping me safe, even though he’s the cause of the tsunami in the first place.