3. Selene #3
Then he slides upward again, dragging that thick head over my swollen folds, and the denial is exquisite, maddening, unbearable.
I'm trembling beneath him, my hips rocking against his rhythm, chasing the pressure, desperate for something I can't even name.
I feel him everywhere, not just between my legs but inside my chest, in my throat, behind my eyes where tears are starting to gather.
He's watching me, I know he is, feeling me fall apart for him.
I can't stop it. I don't want to. I'm his, every broken sound and desperate movement, his.
"Look at us," he growls, his voice breaking. "Look at how you slick my cock. How you open for me even when you can't take me. How fucking perfect you are."
I look down between our bodies, where his shaft glistens with my arousal, where the head disappears and reappears from between my folds, where the friction has turned my lips pink and swollen and obscene.
The visual destroys something in me, some last reservation, and I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer, harder, more.
"More," I beg, my teeth against his throat. "Harder, Daddy. Use me. Mark me. I need to feel you?—"
He loses rhythm. His hips stutter, then piston faster, the head of him battering my clit with every thrust, the shaft dragging through my folds with a wet sound that echoes in the quiet room. His breathing turns ragged, his grip on my hip bruising, his other hand fisting the sheets beside my head.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice splintering, his control cracking open. "Come for your Daddy. Let me feel you break against my cock."
I do. I come apart with a scream I bury in his shoulder, my body convulsing, my nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood.
The orgasm tears through me in waves that start at my clit and radiate outward, turning my bones to liquid, my vision to static, my voice to sounds that aren't words.
My arousal floods between us, slicking his thrusts until there's no friction left, only glide, only heat, only the wet slap of skin against skin.
He groans, a deep, animal sound torn from somewhere low in his chest, and follows.
His cock pulses against my stomach, hot and thick and endless, spilling in stripes across my skin.
The first jet lands between my breasts, the second pools in my navel, the third marks my hip, each one branding me with heat and ownership and the sharp, musky scent of his release.
He keeps thrusting through it, his shaft sliding through his own cum and mine, mixing us together, marking me inside and out with the evidence of what we've done.
He doesn't collapse on me. He rises to his knees, chest heaving, and looks at me. Looks at the mess he's made—the stripes across my stomach, the flush on my chest, my swollen lips, my tear-streaked face. His eyes go dark. Worship. That's what it looks like. Like I'm something sacred.
"Mine," he says, his voice rough, his hand tracing through the cooling fluid on my belly, spreading it into my skin like lotion. "Every inch. Every hole. Every fucking thought. Mine."
He reaches for the warm washcloth he keeps ready, the one he prepared before I arrived, before he knew exactly how this night would end.
He cleans me with tender, methodical strokes, starting at my breasts, working down my stomach, between my legs where I'm still swollen and sensitive and twitching.
The cloth is rough, textured, and I whimper at the friction, my body too raw, too used, too his.
He applies lotion to my thighs, my hips, the places where his fingers left impressions that will bloom into bruises by morning.
He holds me against his chest, my head tucked under his chin, his hand stroking down my spine, over and over, until my shaking stops, until my breath evens out, until I'm limp and pliant and utterly his.
"Tomorrow," he whispers against my hair, his lips pressing to my temple, my eyelid, the corner of my mouth. "Tomorrow I'll stretch you properly. You'll take all of me. But not until you're ready."
He doesn't let me return to my room. He pulls me under the covers, wraps his arm around my waist, and slides his hand between my legs again.
He doesn't move or tease. He just holds me, claiming every inch of me.
His palm cups my mound, his fingers rest against my swollen folds, and I feel owned in a way that has nothing to do with the sex we just had and everything to do with the fact that he's still hard against my back, still breathing my name, still waiting.
I sleep like that, in his bed, with his hand between my legs and his heartbeat against my spine, and I dream of being stretched wide enough to hold all of him, of taking him so deep that we can't tell where one body ends and the other begins.
I wake once in the night. His fingers are still against me, and I feel him hard against my back. But he doesn't move. He just holds me, breathes with me, waits for me.
"Sleep," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. "Tomorrow, we begin."
I don't know if I can. My body is still humming, still aching, still desperate for what he refused to give. But I close my eyes anyway, and I dream of his hands, his patience, the moment he finally makes me his.