Chapter 15 #2
I pant, my chest heaving, staring down at the pearly white streaks coating my pussy. I’m dazed, floating in a haze of endorphins. Slowly, almost hypnotically, I reach down. I touch the warm cum, rubbing it slowly over my clit, the slickness making every touch feel amplified.
Rhys doesn't let me go. He reaches down, his large hand enveloping mine. He doesn't take over; instead, he guides my fingers, pressing them firmly into my own flesh.
"Use it, love," he whispers, his voice a rough command. "Use my seed to take yourself back to the edge."
Under his guidance, I begin to masturbate.
My fingers, drenched in his cum, slide effortlessly over my clit.
He directs the pressure, telling me when to circle, when to press harder, when to flick.
It’s an intimate, agonizingly slow process.
I’m rubbing myself with his essence, the scent of him filling my nostrils, driving me insane.
He leans in, capturing my lips in a hard, bruising kiss. It tastes of hunger and possession. I moan into his mouth, my fingers moving faster and faster under his hand, the friction of his cum making me slide against myself with a wet, slapping sound.
I break the kiss, breathless and desperate, and bury my head in the crook of his neck. I don't just kiss him; I sink my teeth in, sucking his skin, marking him as mine in the only way I know how. I can feel his heart hammering against my cheek, mirroring the frantic pace of my own.
"Harder, Ophelia," he urges, his voice vibrating against my ear. "Do it for me. Come for me again."
I obey, my fingers blurring as I work myself into a frenzy, the cum acting as the perfect lubricant. I can feel the second wave building, faster and more intense than the first. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, my body trembling violently.
Then, it hits. A second, crashing climax that leaves me seeing stars. I cry out, my body shuddering as I come hard, my own juices mixing with his cum on my hand. I collapse against him, completely spent, my muscles turning to jelly.
Only then, as the echoes of my pleasure fade into the morning air, do I slowly let go of his skin, leaving a dark, red mark on his neck as a reminder of my desperation.
The sudden, sharp trill of his phone on the counter shatters the heavy, post-coital silence.
The spell is broken, though the heat still lingers between us.
Rhys lingers for a heartbeat, his lips pressing one last, bruising kiss against mine—a claim, a promise—before he pulls away to check the screen.
I watch him. He pauses, his gaze locking onto the caller ID. A flicker of something dark and focused crosses his features, a shift from the lover to the predator. When he finally answers, the voice that leaks through the speaker is thin, trembling, and laced with pure, unadulterated terror.
"She's after me... Rhys, she's still following me!"
The woman is sobbing, her words fragmented by panic. Rhys’s voice drops an octave, becoming a low, commanding rumble. "Where are you?"
"I'm... I'm almost at the carnival. I tried to lose her, I tried to get away, but she won't let me go! Please, Rhys—"
The transformation in his face is instantaneous. The softness is gone, replaced by a cold, lethal intensity. His eyes harden into flint. "I'm on my way," he says curtly, ending the call.
I freeze as he slides out of bed. There is no hesitation in his movements, only a clinical efficiency.
He pulls up his pants, the fabric snapping against his skin, and reaches down to the floor to retrieve the gun.
The sight of the weapon, so casual in his grip, sends a shiver of apprehension down my spine.
"What's happening?" I ask, my voice small, sounding fragile in the wake of his sudden shift.
He doesn't explain. He doesn't have time. He steps toward me, his hand clamping firmly onto the back of my neck, tilting my head back to capture my lips in a kiss that tastes of urgency and warning. "Wait for me," he commands against my mouth.
He shoves his feet into his shoes and vanishes from the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand there for a second, my heart hammering against my ribs. Wait for him. The words feel like a cage. I can't just sit here while he walks into whatever nightmare is calling him. My eyes dart around the room, landing on the door next to the bathroom. I assume it's a closet.
I jump out of bed, my skin still humming from his touch, and rush to the door, throwing it open. It is indeed a closet, a dark sanctuary of fabric and scent. I don't bother looking for something appropriate; I just grab the first thing my hand touches.
It's a plain black t-shirt. As I yank it over my head, I'm momentarily enveloped in him. It smells of expensive cologne, tobacco, and that raw, masculine musk that has become my obsession. The shirt is gargantuan on me, the hem falling halfway down my thighs like a short dress, the sleeves swallowing my arms and hanging loose. It’s a garment of ownership, marking me as his even in his absence.
I don't stop to find my shoes. Barefoot and breathless, I rush out of the room and sprint down the hallway, the cold floor biting at my soles. I catch a glimpse of his long, dark silhouette descending the stairs, and I scramble after him, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
He exits through a backdoor, stepping out into the sprawling backyard of the castle.
It's a manicured landscape of vibrant, deep green grass that stretches toward a dense, looming wall of ancient trees.
He doesn't run, but his stride is long and purposeful, cutting through the morning air with a predatory grace.
I struggle to keep up, the distance between us growing as I navigate the grass, my bare feet feeling every blade and pebble.
He disappears into the forest, the canopy of trees swallowing the light, turning the world into a haze of emerald and shadow. I push forward, my lungs burning, my eyes fixed on the back of his black coat.
Then, I stop dead.