Chapter 15
The morning light is a pale, ghostly grey, filtering through the curtains as the birds begin their dawn chorus.
I wake up encased in warmth, the heavy, possessive weight of Rhys’s arms wrapped around me.
I blink, my mind slowly stitching together the fragments of the previous night.
I’m naked, my skin still humming from the sensory overload.
I can feel my nipples—swollen, sensitive, and still peaking—though the biting pressure of the clamps is gone.
Necklace is still on my neck.. He must have cleaned me while I was out; I feel fresh, yet the phantom memory of his touch lingers in every pore.
I look up at him. He’s stripped of the imposing black coat, wearing only a black t-shirt and sweatpants that cling to his muscular frame.
He looks peaceful in sleep, but even in repose, he radiates a dangerous energy.
My gaze drifts downward, and there it is: the unmistakable, heavy ridge of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants.
A sudden, sharp ache blooms in my lower belly.
My mouth actually waters. I bite my lip, remembering the way he looked at me, the way he dominated every inch of my being.
I glance at the ceiling—it's just a normal ceiling now, no mirrored reflection to force me to watch my own undoing. I wonder if I saw myself in his eyes last night. I wonder if I looked like the girl I used to be, or if he’s carved something new out of me.
Am I getting better? The question echoes in my head. The coven said he was the key. If this visceral, starving hunger I feel right now is "better," then maybe they were right.
I can't stop staring at the print of his cock.
We haven't actually had sex—not the real, penetrating kind.
The thought sends a surge of heat straight to my core, leaving me dripping and desperate.
God, he smells incredible—like expensive cologne, old books, and something primal, something masculine that makes my instincts scream for him.
I reach out, my fingers trembling, and trace the length of him through the sweatpants. A low, involuntary moan escapes me. I imagine that thickness sliding inside me, filling the void, stretching me until I can't think of anything but him.
For years, I thought I was broken. I thought I was asexual.
I’d read the classics, the smutty passages that made other girls blush, but I felt nothing.
I was a passive observer in my own life.
But Rhys... Rhys Castellan didn't just wake me up; he set my nerves on fire.
I feel like a horny teenager, reckless and starving, my body reacting to him in ways I didn't know were possible.
Rhys Castellan was my sexual awakening.
But who is he? A savior? A monster? Does he kill people himself, or does he just curate the carnage for the wife to kill the husband?
Is this the help Amara was told about that women find here?
Is this what my father was terrified of?
I decide the questions can wait. Before the sun fully rises and I have to retreat back into the shell of the shy girl who can't meet a stranger's eye, I want to make one last bad decision.
I feel him harden under my touch. I watch his throat, the Adam's apple bobbing slightly. Heart hammering against my ribs, I slowly slide out of his grip and climb on top of him. I move with agonizing slowness, positioning my soaking clit directly over the bulge of his cock.
I begin to rub. Slowly. Carefully. I grind my heat against the fabric, the friction sending electric shocks through my pelvis. I bite my lip hard to keep from screaming. It feels incredible—the sheer size of him, even through the cloth, is overwhelming. But I need skin. I need to feel him.
I look at his face; he seems dead to the world. With shaking fingers, I pull the drawstring of his sweatpants and tug them down.
His cock springs free, and I nearly gasp.
It's monstrous. Fat, long, and pulsing with a deep, angry red hue at the head.
It's a weapon of a dick. I slide my clit back onto the bare skin, the slickness of my own arousal acting as a lubricant.
The direct contact is almost too much; my hips jerk instinctively, and I have to clamp my jaw shut to stifle a moan.
My pussy is throbbing, the walls clenching in a desperate rhythm, begging to be filled.
I want it. I want it so badly I can taste it. I lean down, kissing his neck, breathing his scent in as I continue to rub myself against him. I want to see if he will wake up. He doesn't wake. His breathing remains steady, though his Adam's apple bobs again.
Is it possible to fuck him without waking him up? He is hard enough and is asleep, and I don't think I'll have this courage when he's looking at me.
Taking a deep breath, I guide the fat head of his cock to my entrance. I begin to tremble. Up close, he is terrifyingly large. The crown is wider than anything I've ever imagined. I rub the head against my opening, coating him in my juices, and then I try to sink down.
I push. I strain. But I stop abruptly. He won't go in.
I try again, shifting my angle, pushing with more desperation, but it's like trying to fit a mountain into a molehill. He is simply too big. I'm too tight. The friction is intense, but the penetration is impossible.
Frustrated and aching, I climb off. Maybe I need more lube, I think. I lean over and take him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the crown, sucking the length of him until he is glistening and drenched in my saliva.
I climb back up, positioning myself once more. I push down with everything I have, my face flushing, my breath coming in short gasps. Still nothing. He just brushes against me, too wide to breach the entrance. I feel a wave of defeat wash over me. I can't do it. I can't take him.
With a heavy sigh of frustration, I carefully tuck his cock back into his sweatpants, pulling the fabric back into place. I roll over, turning my back to him, curling into a ball and biting my fingernail, trying to ignore the pulsing, unsatisfied heat between my legs.
Suddenly, the air shifts. Before I can even gasp, I feel a thick, warm finger slide decisively into my pussy.
I jump, a sharp cry escaping me as I feel him penetrate me with effortless ease.
"Trying to sneak a taste while I'm sleeping, love?" Rhys's voice is a low, gravelly rumble, vibrating through the mattress and straight into my spine. He sounds amused, his tone dripping with a dark, possessive satisfaction.
I freeze, my heart racing, as he pushes his finger deeper, testing the tight, wet walls of my channel.
"Your tiny little pussy wouldn't let me in, would it?" he murmurs, his breath hot against the back of my neck. "Too tight. Too small. I think we're going to have to stretch you out first, aren't we?"
As he speaks, he curls his finger upward, hooking it sharply against my G-spot, making my entire body arch and a loud, broken moan tear from my throat.
I gasp, my back arching violently as his finger hooks deep inside me. The sensation is electric, a sharp contrast to the frustration of moments ago. I’m trembling, my breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches as he continues to probe my tightness, his voice a dark, velvet caress against my ear.
"You've been a very naughty girl, Ophelia," he murmurs, his tone thick with a possessive sort of hunger. "Trying to take what I haven't given to you yet while I sleep. Did you really think I wouldn't feel you grinding your little heat against me?"
He withdraws his finger with a wet pop, and before I can even process the loss, he shifts. In one fluid, powerful motion, he rolls me onto my back and looms over me. He doesn't enter me—he knows I'm too tight, too unready for the sheer bulk of him—but he doesn't leave me wanting.
He grabs my thighs, hauling them up and wide, exposing my dripping, swollen pussy to the dim morning light. He positions himself perfectly, the fat, pulsing head of his cock pressing firmly against my clit. I let out a broken whimper, my hips instinctively jerking upward.
He has lowered his sweatpants and I feel his cock skin-to-skin.
"Since you're so desperate for me," he growls, "I'll give you exactly what you need."
He begins to grind. It's not the clumsy attempt I made; it's a calculated, rhythmic torture. He slides the length of his hardness up and down against my clitoris, the friction creating a searing heat that radiates through my entire lower body. I can feel every vein, every ridge of his cock rubbing against my most sensitive spot. I’m sobbing now, my fingers clawing at the sheets, my head tossing from side to side.
"Yes... please, Rhys... please," I moan, the words barely intelligible.
He doesn't slow down. He increases the pressure, grinding his pelvis into mine with a brutal, steady pace.
The sensation is overwhelming—the slickness of my juices and his pre-cum acting as a lubricant, turning the friction into a sliding, electric burn.
I feel the tension building in my gut, a coil winding tighter and tighter until I can't breathe.
"Look at me," he commands.
I open my eyes, locking onto his dark, intense gaze.
I try my best not to look away. Not to let fear ruin this for me.
He looks like a god of sin in the morning light, his expression one of absolute dominance.
As I watch him, the coil snaps. A violent orgasm rips through me, my pussy walls clamping shut in rhythmic spasms as I scream into the quiet room.
Just as I peak, I feel him shudder. He lets out a low, guttural groan, his body tensing as he thrusts one last time, hard, against my clit.
I feel the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting, splashing directly onto my swollen clitoris and soaking into my folds.
The warmth of it is staggering, a brand of ownership left right on the center of my pleasure.