Chapter 12 #4
“To be honest…” he murmured, “I didn’t think much about it. The mission… obedience… that was the only path forward. I never had to question anything.”
“Mm.”
“I just had a routine. Orders. Rest. Food. Battle. There was no time to think.”
“And now?”
“And now…” Ulric looked at her. “…no one’s ever touched me like this.”
She leaned forward and kissed him again.
Slower this time.
“Like what?”
“Like this… like you—”
Her fingers brushed along his jaw.
“Like you want me for me… and expect nothing in return.”
She kissed him softly again.
Then pulled back.
A gentle smile.
“Mm… do you want me to continue?” she whispered.
His hands answered.
One wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer.
Their lips met again.
Slow.
Exploratory.
Warm.
There was softness in the kiss.
Gentle.
Unhurried.
When they finally pulled apart, he whispered quietly,
“What magic is this… I feel so—”
She rested her forehead against his.
“Do all Inquisitors overthink this much?”
He chuckled softly.
Then his hands shifted, lifting her slightly, adjusting her comfortably against him.
She smiled faintly, relaxing into his embrace.
“Mmm… there you go.”
Her fingers trailed down the front of the simple, dark leather top she wore. Then, with a deliberate, unhurried tug, she pulled it down.
It now hung around her waist, leaving her upper body bare to him, to the warm air, to his gaze.
And he just looked.
Her breasts were… perfection.
Full and heavy. They were the color of ripe cherries lit from within by a subtle forge-fire, the skin smooth and flawless. Her nipples were a darker shade, and they were begging.
She was looking down on him, her silver eyes gleaming. A smile played on her lips, a radiant beam of pure, confident pleasure. She watched the storm gather in his green eyes, the stoic calm cracking, the discipline wavering, the raw, hungry want rising like a tide.
“Mmm, go on. I know you want to.”
He did.
The desire was a physical ache, a twisting in his gut that rivaled any battle-wound. The scent of her.
His jaw tightened, his lips parted.
He leaned forward.
The first touch was electric.
His lips met the impossibly warm, smooth skin.
He opened his mouth wider, taking a fuller portion of her into it.
A soft, approving hum vibrated from her chest.
The sensation was overwhelming. It was a primal anchor, a focus for all the pent-up, starved hunger of a life spent in harsh survival.
A deep, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled only by her softness.
And he felt the straining hardness in his trousers. It was a demanding, urgent presence, confined by leather and linen. A painful, glorious ache. It didn’t help that she, still straddling him, shifted her hips.
A gentle, deliberate graze.
The smooth, heated leather of her shorts, or perhaps it was just her own skin, rubbed against the bulge of his cock.
He stiffened, a full-body jolt of pleasure-pain.
She smiled, a visible, triumphant curve of her lips that he could feel against his temple.
“There he is,” she whispered, her hands coming to rest on the back of his head, just holding him gently to her breast. “You like that, don’t you? Feeling me against you while you suck on them.”
He couldn’t speak.
He nodded, his face still buried, his mouth working on her nipple, licking, sucking, alternating between soft worship and harder, needier pulls.
Her hands stroked his white hair, her hips occasionally rocking, applying that torturous, gentle pressure to his confined erection. Each rock made him groan deeper into her.
He felt her own arousal rising in response.
The heat of her skin seemed to intensify.
A soft, slick moisture began to coat her nipple, his saliva mixing with something else, a faint, sweet secretion from her own body.
The scent changed, deepening, becoming more intoxicating.
His world narrowed to this: the warm, heavy weight of her breast in his mouth, the ache in his cock, the sound of her breathing growing slightly quicker, the feel of her fingers threading through his hair.
Then, she shifted.
It was a slow, deliberate motion.
She didn’t push him away.
Instead, she swung one leg, then the other, so that she was no longer straddling him. She now sat sideways at his side, her body turned so her breasts were still accessible to him.
“Mmm, poor thing,” she purred, her silver eyes looking down at his strained cock. “You’ve been so starved, haven’t you?”
“Mm-hm.”
His tongue swirled around the base of her nipple.
Her free hand, the one not supporting her, trailed down his side, over the hard muscle of his abdomen, and finally came to rest at the top of his trousers. Her fingers played with the simple leather tie that held them closed.
His body stiffened.
A flash of his old restraint, a warning from the part of him that knew only battle and survival.
Vulnerability.
“Shhh,” she soothed. “Let me take it out.”
Her fingers pulled the tie.
It came loose.
She didn’t rush.
She tugged at the waist of his trousers, then his linen underclothes, pulling them down just enough.
Her hand wrapped around his cock and drew him out, up, into the warm air of the chamber.
Huge was an understatement.
He was long and thick.
His cock was pale against her glowing crimson hand, the skin taut, the vein along its side prominent. The head was broad, flushed a deep red, and already glistening.
“Mmph, I think I’ll need to use both hands.”
One remained at the base, holding him steady. The other moved to wrap around his shaft, her grip firm and knowing. She looked at him for a moment, her silver eyes drinking in the sight.
His body tense.
His cock out.
She licked her lips.
Her mouth opening.
She spat.
A clear, shimmering strand of saliva fell onto the head of his cock, mixing with the bead of his own pre-cum on the tip.
Then she began to stroke.
Her hand moved up from the base, a slow, twisting slide that coated his length with the slickness. She reached the head, her thumb brushing over the slit, collecting the fluid there. Then she slid back down.
Up again.
Down.
He was hard.
So hard it felt like stone.
And pre-cumming.
A lot.
Each pass of her hand, each brush of her thumb, elicited a fresh, clear droplet that welled up and spilled over.
His head was titled backwards.
He groaned, a continuous, low sound of unbearable pleasure.
She adjusted her position, moving a bit more so she could look into his eyes. She was stroking him with one hand now, her breasts pushed against his mouth again. She tilted her head, her face now close to his, though his mouth was occupied.
“Mmmph, you’re pre-cumming so much. I love how responsive you are.”
Her stroking hand paused at the top, her fingers swirling around the head, spreading the fluid.
“Does it feel that good? Having my tits in your mouth while I stroke your beautiful cock?”
He just groaned into her, a sound of affirmative agony.
She smiled and resumed stroking, her pace steady and relentless.
The sounds were wet and slick in the silent chamber.
His breathing became ragged, his groans more desperate.
He was losing himself.
The Inquisitor, was crumbling.
The dual assault, the sweet warmth filling his mouth, the exquisite friction on his cock. He felt his climax building, a dangerous, rising tide at the base of his spine. His hands, which have been wrapped around her waist, now dig further into her.
She stroked him for a while, bringing him closer and closer to the edge with every twist of her wrist, every squeeze of her fingers.
But then…
She stopped.
She pulled her hands away.
The sudden absence of friction was a shock.
A cruel, delicious shock.
He shuddered, his cock jumping in the air, wet and gleaming.
He looked at her, his green eyes wide, dark with confusion and need.
Both of her hands were now just… holding his cock.
Not moving.
Just cradling it, feeling its throbbing heat.
She just whispered, her voice a hushed, intimate secret.
“Now, it’s my turn.”
“What—”
“Shhh… just be good to me and let go.”
She moved.
Sliding off his lap entirely.
On her knees.
On the stone floor before him.
Her glowing crimson form a radiant altar at his feet.
Her silver eyes drinking him in.
She stuck out her tongue.
It was a deliberate, provocative gesture.
It was wet, and she let it rest just beyond her lips, waiting.
He understood.
An invitation.
A final, crumbling fragment of his discipline made him act.
He reached for her with his large rough hand and gathered her long, black hair into a makeshift ponytail.
His other hand grabbed his cock and rested it on her wet tongue.
He slapped it a few times.
The sound was lewd and exquisite.
Her eyes, looking up at him, rolled backwards, a silver flash of ecstasy.
She didn’t say anything, just took him in with a deep, committed push. Her mouth opened wider, accommodating his girth. The hot, wet confines of her mouth, the soft press of her tongue along his underside, the firm ring of her lips sealing around him.
She began to drool almost instantly.
The copious saliva, mixed with his pre-cum, created a slick mess. It spilled from her lips, coating his shaft.
Sloppy.
She made no attempt to be neat, to be tidy.
This was a feast.
He held her hair tightly with both hands now.
She set a relentless pace.
Each withdrawal was a wet, sucking pull that made his eyes roll.
Each descent was a deep, throat-filled penetration that made him gasp.
The sounds filled the chamber.
Wet, rhythm of her mouth taking him.
The choked, ragged groans from his throat.
The slick, dripping spill of saliva hitting the stone floor.
She looked up at him occasionally, her silver eyes glazed with pleasure, with a kind of fierce ownership.
She owned this moment.
She owned his pleasure.
She owned his release.
He was helpless.
His head thrown back, his chest heaving.
The coil of his climax, which had been wound tight by her hands, was now being hammered directly, relentlessly.
She didn’t stop.
She took him deeper.
He started cumming.
A lot.
It wasn’t a single, controlled release. It was a violent, shattering eruption, a dam breaking inside him after a lifetime of restraint.