Chapter 22 #2
I stand frozen, just inside the door. I can feel the violence crackling inside me. My hands ache to ball into fists. I haven't looked at Ash since we left, since I peeled Brett away from her and saw the bruises already growing on her skin.
Casie steps toward me, closing the gap. Say something.”
I grit my teeth. “I. Should. Have. Killed. Him.”
“You got me out, instead.” Her voice shakes. “That's what matters.”
“He never should have been near you. I should have ripped the veins from his body the first time.” My voice is barely a whisper, every word like a shard of glass in my throat. “I felt your fear, Casie. It was–”
I swear, his anger is a living, breathing thing. I can feel it pacing around the small space of the apartment, the weight of it. I'd swear I can smell it — a wafting scent of gasoline, blood and sweat. There's something else there, too. Almost like a thunderstorm, all electricity and rain.
I don't want to talk about Brett. Not now. Not with the heat of adrenaline still thrumming through my blood like a second heartbeat; with Flint standing there like he is about to explode. He's blaming himself. Drowning in guilt and restraint.
So, I do the only thing that I can think to do. The only thing to maybe, hopefully, stop Flint from thinking. I close the distance between us, putting one hand on his shoulder and the other against his cheek, and press my lips to his.
I feel him stiffen, for just an instant.
Then, he sinks into it, like gravity finally catches up to him.
One hand caresses my cheek, the other wraps in the tangle of my hair, using it as leverage to change the angle of the kiss.
He plunders my mouth, his warm tongue stroking inside, dancing over and teasing my own.
He moans into my mouth as the kiss deepens, yet still manages to keep a respectful distance between our bodies.
For fucks sake.
I love the man — his respect, his care — but I don't want any of that right now.
I close the distance between us, pulling myself flush against him. I can feel how hard he already is, even through his jeans.
He drags his mouth away, gasping for air.
“I don't want safe,” I whisper, letting my lips find his neck. “I want you.”
“You don't know what you're asking for,” he growls, voice thick with restraint. “I'm not sure I can stop once I start.”
I look up at him, seeing the wildness I'm feeling shining within his eyes.
“Then don't.”
Flint groans, like something just broke inside him.
Before I can take another breath, he pushes me back into the wall with a thud and my mouth is being devoured by his. His hands are under my shirt in seconds, rough and insistent, dragging it up, over my head. I raise my arms in a feeble attempt at helping, but my brain has gone all floaty.
Until he sets his teeth into my neck and I feel my core go molten.
I yank his jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
I need to feel him — skin to skin, heat to heat, pounding heart to pounding heart.
I need to burn with him until nothing else exists.
He hooks his hands under my ass, lifting me off the ground. I wrap my legs around him instinctively, igniting another fire inside me. He carries me the short distance to the living room.
Not gentle. Not slow.
He lays me back on the couch. And stops.
And stares.
I can physically feel his gaze traveling over my body and I can only imagine what he's seeing. My make-up is surely smeared, my hair is probably a tousled mess. Oh — and I'm half naked.
Just before I open my mouth to make some self-deprecating joke to ease the tension I can feel building, he finally speaks.
“Fuck, you're beautiful,” he murmurs. “You always have been.”
Inexplicably, tears flood my throat. I can feel the tightness.
I reach for him, pulling him down, my mouth seeking out his. Softer, slower this time, but with the same hunger. His weight settles over me, both grounding and unbearable at once. I can feel that he's shaking, trying to hold himself in check.
“Don't be careful with me,” I whisper against his lips. “I don't need you to be gentle.”
“What if I need to be?” he says on a harsh exhale.
I can't help but cup his face in my hands. “You don't. You can stop pretending I'm glass. I can take you, Flint.”
I smile and I know he sees the challenge in my gaze.
Flint comes undone.
He kisses his way down my body — neck, chest, stomach — until he's kneeling between my thighs. He reaches up to peel off my jeans and underwear, the fabric disappearing in one swift motion. He spreads my thighs with his hands and I can feel them tremble. I hear his breath catch.
Before I have the chance to become self-conscious, he rasps, “You're dripping. Did I do this to you?”
“All for you,” I manage to gasp out, as he runs a single, callused finger, along me.
As the words leave my mouth, his gaze meets mine. His eyes darken like a storm. Then his mouth is on me — slow and sinful, his tongue circling my clit with maddening patience. I gasp, hips bucking against his face, but he presses me down with one arm across my hips, pinning me to the couch.
“Hold still,” he growls. “I haven't had a dessert in years.”
I whimper as he licks deeper, tongue pushing into me before flicking back up to circle me again. He sucks on my clit — hard — and my spine bows like I've been struck by lightning.
“Oh fuck, Flint–”
He slides two fingers inside me, curling them against the bundle of nerves, and my entire body lights up, the climax hitting hard and fast. My cries ring in the air, sharp and raw, and Flint groans against me, licking and sucking, pausing only long enough to whisper "good girl," before his tongue finds me again.
Another climax slams into my body, sharper, clearer than the first. He continues to feed on me through it, like he needs to memorize the taste of my pleasure.
I collapse what feels like a lifetime later, panting, limp and slick. He finally rises.
His mouth is glistening, which almost has me coming again. His eyes look feral, the intense clear blue of them almost glowing.
Can multiple orgasms cause hallucinations?
“You came so fast for me,” he says, roughly. “You used to beg me to stop and beg me not to — in the same breath.”
I grin, wickedly. “still might.”
He unzips his jeans with a hand and his cock springs free — hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip. I reach for him, but he catches my wrist.
“Uh-uh,” he says, voice gravel. “Not yet. Tonight's not about teasing. It's about taking.”
He grips my hips, maneuvering my hips to the edge of the cushion. Gripping himself firmly in hand, he runs his cock through my folds, coating himself in my slick, wet, heat.
“You want me to fuck you?” he growls, watching my face.
I'm no longer even capable of making a coherent sentence, let alone having a real, rational thought.
The man is looking at me like he'll die without me.
This giant, fierce warrior. He looks like a God — his eyes glowing from within with fire, soft, taught skin over hard, rippling muscles.
Even in the aftermath of him making my body sing, I crave having him inside me and I can see him shaking with need.
I nod, dumbly.
“Raw?”
Another nod. I reach for him, and he stops me again, leaning forward to pin my head next to my head.
“You want me to stretch this pretty pussy open and fuck you until you can't say any hint but my name?”
I moan.
He laughs, wickedly.
“I'm afraid I'm going to need the words, love.”
If he keeps it up, I'm going to come again from just his words.
“Yes,” I manage to grind out, craving the sweet friction of his body against mine. “Yes — gods, please, yes.” I know I'm on the very edge of babbling, but I don't care.
The entirety of my universe has come down to this male and the sharp, sweet need pulsing between my thighs.
Finally, he presses into me, slowly. Inch by inch.
As wet as I am, as needy as he's made me, I still need a chance to adjust to the size of him.
I'm doing my damnedest to not babble incoherently as he stretches me in all the best possible ways until finally, he bottoms out with a broken sound, almost a whimper.
I cry out, clawing at the skin covering his muscled back, overwhelmed by how full I feel in this moment.
How right.
He stills above me and I can feel him shaking with the need to move, to take, to own. His breathing is ragged as he says, “Fuck, you feel like home.”
Then, he begins to move.
Long, deep strokes. The kind that make my whole body rock with each thrust. He braces one hand near my head, another on the back of the couch, and watches me — watches every reaction with the intensity of a starving man.
“You look so godsdamn good like this,” he pants. “Eyes glassy, lips swollen, and full of me.”
I lift my legs and lock my ankles behind his back, drawing him in even deeper. He lets his head fall back and moans, deeply.
“Harder,” I gasp. “I can take it.”
“You sure?”
“I need it. I need you.”
He whimpers and I have a fleeting moment of awe, that I can bring this giant male to his knees.
Then he adjusts his grip, bracing himself and locking his jaw. And he fucks me like he means to brand me from the inside out.
Every thrust slams into me with enough force to knock my breath loose.
I reach up, bracing one hand against the arm of the couch to give me some leverage, as I meet him thrust for thrust. My other hand tries to find purchase on his sweat slicked shoulder, nails digging into his skin.
He doesn't slow, doesn't let me try to catch up.
His rhythm is punishing. Perfect. Primal.
“You missed this,” he grits out. “I can feel it. This body, your body, remembers me, even if you don't.”
“Gods. Flint. Don't. Don't stop–”
“Say. It. Again.” Each word punctuated by a deep, hard thrust.
“Flint.”
Thrust.
“Don't.”
Thrust.
“Stop.”
He reaches down with one hand, circling my clit and growls, “good girl” low in his throat.
My third orgasm of the evening sneaks up like a wave, and crashes through me harder than any other. I scream his name, my legs trembling, body convulsing under him — and he doesn't stop.
He slows only when I'm panting, shaking, sweating, my body limp with aftershocks. He leans down, our bodies still joined, and kisses me softly.
With preternatural speed, he pulls out of my body and flips me over.
I'm so dazed it takes a moment for the move to register. “What are you–
“Not done yet.”
He drags my hips up, and pushes back into me from behind. My pussy accepts him greedily, hungrily. Like I was made for this, for him.
I cry out as he bottoms out, the new angle allowing him to go even deeper, to fill me even fuller.
And he begins to move again.
It feels darker. More intense.
“Fuck, you take me so good like this,” he growls. “Like you were made to be ruined by me.”
He wraps a fist in my hair and pulls my head back, whispering into my ear, “You feel that deep ache in your belly, love? That's me. You'll still feel me tomorrow.”
I'm fully babbling now — half his name, half cries of desperation — lost to the rhythm and the way he drives into me like he's carving his name into my soul. Every stroke is a confession; every sound is a prayer answered.
When he finally loses control, it's wild.
He snarls, his hips driving hard as he buries himself one last time and comes with a broken, desperate shout, my name a roar on his lips.
I can feel his thick, hard cock kicking inside me, and shudder at the image of his hot cum filling me, even as I feel it flowing down the insides of my thighs.
his whole body shudders over me, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
He places a chaste kiss on my spine and struggles to catch his breath, arms shaking.
We lay like that for a long moment, breathless, shaking. Bound together by sweat and magick and the sound of each other's hearts slamming in their chests.
He pulls out carefully, letting out a satisfied little hum at the mess he's made of me, then lies beside me, gathering me close to his chest like I'm something sacred.
I tuck my face into his neck, still dazed.
“I think I forgot how to breathe,” I murmur against the erratic beat of his pulse against my lips.
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I think I forgot how to feel until you let me fall apart inside you.”
I don't know what to say to that, so we lie in silence. Bodies tangled, hearts finally beating in sync.
I smile and turn my head, resting my head against his chest and relaxing, the steady thud of his heart grounding me. I feel myself starting to drift off.
I imagine I hear Flint say, quietly, “I love you.”
I smile into the dream, satisfied and content. “Me too.”