Chapter 22 Lena #2
It was different from the greenhouse. Deeper.
His tongue slid against mine, tasting me, learning the inside of my mouth like he wanted to memorize every detail.
His hands slid down from my face to my shoulders, my arms, the curve of my waist. Touching me through my clothes like he was mapping my body, discovering it for the first time despite all the nights I’d stood naked before him under the harsh light of obligation.
“Can I?” His fingers found the hem of my sweater, warm against the sliver of skin exposed above my waistband.
“Yes.”
He pulled it over my head slowly. Unhurried. Not the clinical efficiency of the strip inspections, where my nudity had been demanded as proof of compliance. This was something else. Reverent. Like he was unwrapping something precious, something he’d been waiting for, something that mattered.
My bra followed, his fingers unhooking the clasp with practiced ease before sliding the straps down my arms. Then my pants, his fingers working the button and zipper with care before sliding the fabric down my legs.
He knelt to help me step out of them, his breath warm against my thighs, his face level with my hip.
I stood before him in nothing but my underwear, and felt my cheeks heat with a blush I couldn’t control.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, looking up at me from where he knelt. “So fucking beautiful.”
It should have felt ridiculous. I’d been naked in front of him dozens of times.
He’d seen every inch of me, touched places no one else had ever touched.
But this was different. This time, I wasn’t performing.
I wasn’t enduring. I was choosing, and somehow that made me feel more exposed than any strip inspection ever had.
More vulnerable than I’d ever allowed myself to be.
His fingers hooked in the waistband of my panties. He looked at me with an unspoken question in his expression.
“Yes.”
Cool air hit my center as the last barrier between us slid down my legs. I was completely naked now, standing in the golden afternoon light of his bedroom, trembling not from cold but from anticipation. From want. From the desperate need to feel his hands on me again.
He was still fully dressed.
The imbalance should have felt like a power play.
Like all the other times he’d kept me vulnerable while he remained guarded, untouchable, in control.
But his eyes were soft as they traced over my body, and his hands were gentle as they guided me backward toward the bed.
When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I sat down, then lay back against the pillows at his silent urging, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
“Tell me what you feel,” he said. He was kneeling at the edge of the bed now, his face level with my hip, his breath warm against my skin. “Tell me what you want.”
“I don’t know.” My voice came out breathier than I intended, thick with arousal I couldn’t hide. “I’ve never…”
“I know.” His hand settled on my knee, warm and steadying, his thumb stroking small circles that made my skin prickle with awareness. “That’s why I need you to tell me. Every step. So I know it’s good. So I know I’m giving you what you need.”
He parted my thighs with gentle pressure.
Not forcing. Asking. I let my legs fall open, felt the cool air against my wet heat, and fought the urge to close them again out of embarrassment.
I was exposed in a way I’d never been before, spread open for his gaze, for his touch, for whatever he wanted to do to me.
“You’re beautiful here too,” he said, and his voice had gone rough in a way that made something clench low in my belly. “So pink and wet and perfect. Is this pussy for me?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Say it.”
“It’s for you.” The admission came out barely above a whisper. “All of it is for you.”
His breath washed over my sensitive flesh, warm and intimate, and I gasped at the sensation. He was so close. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the promise of contact that hadn’t happened yet, the anticipation building to something unbearable.
“I’m going to taste you. Claim you with my mouth. And when I’m done, you’ll know exactly who this pussy belongs to.” His voice was a command wrapped in velvet. “Tell me yes.”
The demand made my face flame hotter. But I managed to whisper, “Yes. Please.”
His mouth found me.
The first touch of his tongue made me jolt like I’d been shocked, my hips bucking off the bed before I could stop them.
Pleasure, bright and startling, radiating outward from the place where his mouth was working against me.
His hands slid under my thighs, lifting them over his shoulders, holding me open for his exploration.
Holding me in place so I couldn’t escape the onslaught of sensation.
I’d expected something perfunctory. Obligatory. The way sex had been described to me by friends and the internet, a thing men did because women expected it, usually badly and without enthusiasm, just checking a box before the main event.
This was nothing like that.
Raphael ate my pussy like he was starving for it.
His tongue traced patterns I couldn’t follow, flicking and circling and pressing in ways that made me writhe against the sheets.
He found my clit and licked around it, teasing, then pressed the flat of his tongue against it and rubbed until I cried out.
His lips closed around the swollen nub and sucked, gentle at first, then harder when I moaned and arched my back off the bed.
“That’s it,” he murmured against my flesh, the words vibrating through me, making me shudder. “Let me hear you. Don’t hold back. I want to hear every sound you make.”
I couldn’t have held back if I’d tried. The sounds spilling from my mouth were beyond my control, whimpers and gasps and broken fragments of his name as he worked me higher and higher.
My hands found his hair, gripping the dark strands, not sure if I was pulling him closer or pushing him away.
Both. Neither. I was beyond rational thought, beyond anything except the wet heat of his mouth and the coiling pressure building in my core.
He didn’t stop. His tongue slid lower, pressing into my entrance, and I felt myself clench around the intrusion, my inner muscles fluttering. Then back up to my clit, circling, teasing, building that pressure until I thought I might shatter into a thousand pieces.
“I can’t,” I gasped. “It’s too much, I can’t—”
“You can.” His eyes met mine over the landscape of my body, dark and intent, his mouth glistening with my arousal. “Let go, Lena. Let me make you feel good. Let me give you this.”
He sealed his mouth over me and sucked hard, his tongue flicking against my clit, and the world exploded.
I came with a cry that might have been his name, my body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed through me.
It was unlike anything I’d ever felt before, this pleasure that consumed me, that burned through every nerve ending and left me trembling in its wake.
He didn’t stop, working me through the climax with his tongue, gentling his touch as the aftershocks rippled outward and my trembling thighs slowly relaxed against his shoulders.
When I finally came back to myself, floating in a haze of pleasure and disbelief, he was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read. Satisfied, maybe. Hungry. Tender in a way that made my chest ache with something I was afraid to name.
“Good?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
I laughed, the sound shaky and incredulous. “I didn’t know it could feel like that. I didn’t know anything could feel like that.”
Something kindled in his eyes. Pride, maybe. Or possession. Or something softer than either, something that scared me more than all his dominance ever had.
He moved up the bed to lie beside me, still fully clothed, his arm curving around my waist to pull me against his side.
The fabric of his shirt was cool against my overheated skin.
I could feel him through his pants, hard and straining against the fabric, pressing against my hip.
He wanted me. He’d just given me the most intense pleasure of my life, and he was still aroused, still wanting, still aching for his own release.
The thought made something brave and reckless uncurl in my chest. Something that wanted to give back what he’d given me. Something that wanted to see him lose control the way I just had.
“Can I touch you?” I asked.
He went very still against me, his breathing pausing for a heartbeat. “You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t have to.” I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at him.
At this powerful, terrifying man who had just asked permission before every touch, who had made my pleasure the entire point instead of a footnote to his own.
Who had knelt between my thighs and worshipped me with his mouth like I was something precious.
“I want to. I want to make you feel good too.”
His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing my lower lip. His eyes searched mine, looking for doubt, for obligation, for any sign that I was doing this because I felt I had to rather than because I wanted to.
“Are you sure? Because once you taste me, once you swallow what I give you, there’s no pretending this is just a contract anymore.”
“Stop asking me that.” I leaned down to kiss him, tasting myself on his mouth, the intimate evidence of what he’d just done to me. The rawness of it made me shiver. “I’m sure. Teach me how.”
He helped me undress him, his hands steady where mine trembled slightly.
Shirt first, revealing the muscled planes of his chest, the scars I’d only touched once.
I ran my fingers over them now, tracing the raised lines of old wounds, wondering at the stories behind each one.
Then his pants and boxer briefs together, sliding down his legs until he was as naked as I was.