Chapter 13 - Darya #3
“Can you quit with the Prince Charming routine? Not only is it annoying, but it’s also unnecessary.
I’m not some damsel in distress. I’m your equal, if not your outright superior.
” The urge to stomp my foot is undeniable.
My legs are too busy being wrapped around his waist, so I kick at the back of his thigh instead. “You owe me a birthday present.”
“Do you have an insulting me kink?” he counters, eyes dark.
Well… “Depends on how well you take it,” I answer honestly, my mouth too unfettered and my inhibitions lost to the night.
Whatever the look on my face, it coerces his hands back onto my body. His palms at my waist, tapering up my waist to palm at my breasts. His hands devour me wherever they land. He’s so big, in every way.
“I want you in my mouth,” I exhale, pressing a fluttering kiss to his brow. “I want you to let me have you, and take you, and use you however I want. Can you do that for me, Anton? Please?”
His exhale seems to rattle through him. His muscles bunch with his restraint. “You’re killing me,” he says in a pained rasp.
It isn’t a no. If anything, it’s the opposite.
Especially when he takes a step back, and his shaking hands make stunningly quick work of his clothing.
In record time, he’s shoved the double bands at his waist down, and his cock springs free—thick, and flushed, and leaking.
The sight of it alone makes heat pool between my hips.
My hands are slower to rid myself of my bottoms, but they find his choice inspired. In one fell swoop, I shove every stitch of clothing off my body. Yet, when I reach for the ankle strap, he makes a noise of dissent deep in his throat.
“Leave them on.”
It’s somewhere between an order and a plea. A sweet spot.
My knees hit the plush carpet, and I polish the glistening head of his cock with the flat of my tongue. The salt of his desire coats my tongue like communion. I look up at him to see if this gets to him the way he gets to me. If he’s coming apart at the seams, too.
The look on Anton’s face is debauched. Filthy.
So primal. So possessive, especially the thumb that strokes its way along my lip to the corner of my mouth, in the moment before the opposite palm cups the back of my head.
“You can take more,” he insists, hoarse.
“There you go. You’re so fucking stubborn, aren’t you?
But so good to let me use it. Use your perfect fucking mouth. ”
His praise is as mindless as it is debased.
I drag my slick cleft over my own ankles, crossed beneath me.
So viscerally, I feel how wet it makes me, letting him have my mouth.
Having him tell me no one’s better. Murmuring about how wrong he is, but how he can’t stop, that he can’t stop using my perfect mouth, because it feels too good.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and it isn’t just because of the pressure of him, going from filling my mouth with nudges of his hips to filling my throat with helpless thrusts.
“So… fucking… stubborn,” he grits out through his clenched teeth, and I don’t doubt that it’s a compliment.
No woman could help it for this long. I can’t. I don’t even think about it. My free hand—the one not cupping his balls, tugging gently, knowing it’ll drive him crazy now that I’ve already proven it—slips between my own legs, rubbing frantically at my swollen nub.
Immediately, Anton notices. Before I can wrap my head around it, he has his hand around my throat, commanding me upright, condemning, “No,” like his grip doesn’t tighten at the sight of strings of saliva connecting my swollen lips to his glistening cock.
“You’re mine to take care of. That’s what you need, isn’t it—to be spoiled? ”
He is a conundrum, this man. His mouth orders, and his eyes beseech.
His hips have worked my throat raw, and he places the gentlest kiss on my lips.
He snatches my hand away from my clit, then can’t stand to stroke it for long before he’s hoisting me up into his arms and carrying me to bed.
He sits himself on the bed, and I on his cock.
Gravity does the work for him.
He slides in so deep, so completely, my breathing stalls. I can’t breathe until his lips are at my pulse, kissing my neck, murmuring, “You’re so fucking tight, I can’t—I can’t...” His lips are sweet with me, and his hand is not, gripping a handful of curls and wrenching my head back.
He’s all over me, enveloping me, like he’d like to consume me.
My exhale comes out as a needy whimper. His thumb finds my clit, rubbing comforting circles into it, like his vicious mouth isn’t making a mess of my breasts, licking and sucking.
Or he doesn’t give up the ministration to keep his fistfuls of skin at the swell of my hips in his possession, using it to grind me harder against him.
“Never enough fucking hands,” he mutters irately, biting me.
He nips at my neck, my throat, my collarbone.
When the pleasure building inside me bursts, it spreads through my limbs in tongues of flame. As I quake in his arms and cry out against his mouth, which I drag back to mine, all I can think is, This is the opposite of hatred.