Naomi #4
“That’s it, let me in, give me everything,” he murmurs sardonically. Hot kisses trail across my shoulder and up my neck, as he hooks my leg around his hip. Each slow and steady thrust, working raspy moans from my throat. “Let me hear you beg for what you want,” he growls, “and I’ll give it to you.”
Every shred of sense I have left evaporates into thin air.
“Harder,” I whisper, the words a broken plea.
“Now, is that how you ask God for what you want?” He tsks. “You’ve forgotten your manners.”
“Fuck off,” I manage to grit out.
His fingers press into the sides of my neck, thumb resting against my pulse.
My eyelids flutter, but I don't pull away.
The pressure builds as spots dance at the edges of my vision.
His rhythm never falters—finger still pumping, thumb still working me into a frenzy—as he draws my face closer to his.
Mint and whiskey swirl between us with each of his exhales, replacing the oxygen I can no longer draw in.
“Don’t you ever tell me to fuck off, do you understand?” he sneers as if the thought of me asking him to leave me alone is asinine, as if it truly boils his blood. “Because if I leave, I’m not coming back, and I’ll leave you on this counter a shaking mess after I break you.”
As I whimper at his harsh words, my pussy clamps down around his fingers.
He chuckles. “You see? She understands, she knows who she belongs to.” His fingers curl inside me, dragging out a moan—slowly driving me to the brink of insanity. “Get with the program. Beg like my good little whore.”
“Please,” I rasp out. He releases his grip, and I greedily drink air into my lungs.
“See, that wasn’t so hard.” He strokes his thumb over my mouth in the small gap between us before running his tongue over my bottom lip. “Now, where were we?” I can hear the cocky grin in his tone.
“Please.” The word comes out too breathy, too needy, as the intensity of every thrust builds. “Go to hell.”
He chuckles again, but this time the sound is close to death itself, deep, ominous. “Can’t you see? We’re already here.”
His fingers drive deeper, curling with precision—right where the line between pain and pleasure bleeds together so beautifully, making my body jolt and nerves scream. His other hand wraps around my throat again, stealing my breath and replacing it with heat, pressure, and power.
I gasp—choked and aching—as my back arches for more, even while some frantic part of me wants to tear away.
It’s useless. My body is too far gone, traitorous and trembling, wet and welcoming as I clench around him, every thrust of his fingers pulling me closer to the edge I kept saying to stay away from.
“Does that feel good, my Little Dove?” he coos, his full lip ghosting over mine.
“Fuck,” I pant, rolling my hips to gather every mind-numbing, universe-altering pump. “You.” I gasp, ragged and raw, as pleasure coils tight—ready to snap. It builds, violent and sweet, a wicked storm rising from deep inside, and I know I’m seconds away from shattering in his palm.
And then he stops.
The loss of him feels like a slap, my body screaming for more as he pulls his fingers free. Two wet pops echo in the dark as he licks his fingers clean, punctuating heavy, heated pants between us.
“I knew you’d be addictive,” he hums, his voice laced with reverence and sin.
“Goddamn fucking ecstasy.” His grip on my neck tightens possessively as he whispers, “Now go back out there—pretend to be his perfect little fiancée. Smile for him... while you’re dripping for me, still aching from how I made your pussy weep. ” I can’t speak, can’t move.
I barely even remember how to breathe.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
It’s as if his presence short-circuits my brain. All I want is for him to stay, take me away, and fuck me until our pain bleeds together.
I could feel the agony in every thrust of his fingers, even though I couldn’t see his face—his pain, mine, courses through our veins. Screaming even in the silence. Redefining us and defining us at the same time.
We are one and the same.
He slips the mask from beneath my palm and strides out the door like he didn’t just destroy me with his heat and touch. I catch a hint of his dark hair and jeans that sit low on his hips and fit just right. And as I sit here, trembling and wrecked, every nerve still screams for more of him.
Ultimately, he’s right. I can’t concentrate on anything but how deliciously sore my pussy is, or how it clenches several times in search of his touch.
After a moment, I gather the shattered edges of my dignity and hop down from the counter, my legs still trembling beneath me. As I flick the light on, blinking against its harsh glare, I catch sight of my reflection.
I look a mess—hair wild, lipstick smudged across my cheek.
I crouch beneath the sink, fingers shaking as I search for my spare makeup kit I stashed months ago. I kept it for emergencies like this—But this? This is different. I’m not just disheveled—I’m dismantled. And I don’t know if a little lipstick can cover up the kind of wreckage he just left me in.
It takes time to paint the mask of virtue back onto my face.
I try to exhale a fraction of my tension, but like every part of my life, it’s all a lie—I’m wound too tight. And instead, I find myself wondering if it would be so bad to let him have what’s left of my sanity.