Chapter 13 #2
I use my tongue the way I use silence, patient and thorough and relentless.
I start with long, flat strokes through her folds, tasting the salt and slick heat of her arousal, learning what makes her breath catch and what makes her hips cant toward my mouth.
She's swollen under my tongue, sensitive enough that every pass draws a sound from her she can't bury.
I circle her clit with the tip, slow and focused, then close my lips around it and suck gently, and the sound she makes is deep enough to vibrate through her thighs into my jaw.
I pull back, lick lower, press my tongue inside her and feel her inner muscles clench against it while her fingers knot in my hair and pull hard enough to sting.
The taste of her floods my mouth and I groan against her, and the vibration makes her hips buck off the mattress.
I go back to her clit. I find the rhythm that makes her thighs tremble, a steady, focused pressure with the flat of my tongue, consistent and unrelenting, and her fingers tighten until the pull borders on pain.
"Andy, I'm going to..."
"Not yet."
I pull back. She makes a sound of outrage that would be funny if I weren't so hard it hurts, a frustrated growl that contains at least two creative suggestions for what I can do with my patience.
"Are you serious right now?" She props herself up on her elbows and glares at me from the other end of the bed, flushed from her chest to her hairline, her lips swollen and her eyes bright with indignation. "You cannot be serious right now."
"Ask me nicely for what you want."
"I want to kill you. Nicely."
"That's not going to get you there."
"Fine." She flops back against the pillow. "Please, Andy, will you stop being an insufferable control freak for five seconds and let me come."
"Closer. But I want the specific version. Tell me exactly how you want to come."
The silence stretches. She stares at the ceiling. Her chest rises and falls with breathing that's still ragged from the edge I pulled her back from, and I can see the calculation running, the bravado reaching for a quip and finding nothing that serves as a substitute for the truth.
"I want your mouth on me when I come," she says. Her voice is quieter now, stripped to the grain. "I want to feel you. I want to watch."
I lower my head and give her what she asked for.
My mouth returns to the spot that made her shake, and this time I don't pull back.
I work her with steady, focused pressure while my hands grip her hips and hold her against the bed, and when the orgasm hits her it rolls through her body in waves I can feel against my tongue, her inner muscles clenching around nothing and her thighs squeezing my head and her voice breaking over my name in a way that sends a pulse of heat through me so sharp my hips press into the mattress for relief.
I kiss the inside of her thigh. I press my mouth against the crease where her leg meets her hip and taste the salt of her skin and feel the tremors still running through her like aftershocks.
Her hand finds my hair again, gentler this time, her fingers threading through it and pulling me up toward her.
"Come here," she says. "I need you up here. Please."
I crawl up her body and settle between her thighs, and when my cock presses against her she's so wet and sensitive that the contact alone makes her inhale through her teeth.
Her hand reaches between us and wraps around me, and the grip of her fingers is firm and specific and confident in a way that tells me the brat knows exactly what she's doing.
"You're shaking," she says, and there's a note of wonder in it that the bravado can't quite cover. "The unshakeable Andy Broussard is shaking."
"You're holding my cock and making observations. Pick one."
I take her wrist and pin it against the pillow above her head, holding it there while I reach between us with my free hand and position myself at her entrance.
Her breath catches. Her eyes find mine in the dark, and the bravado is gone and the wonder is still there and underneath both is the want, stripped bare and waiting.
I press into her and the sound we share is low and unguarded and belongs to neither of us alone.
She is tight and wet and the heat of her body around me empties my lungs.
I hold still, buried to the hilt, my forehead pressed against hers and my arms braced on either side of her head, and the discipline of staying motionless while every nerve in my body is screaming to move makes my biceps burn.
"I don't know how to do this without the act," she whispers, and the honesty of it, offered in the dark with me inside her and her walls down and her face inches from mine, is the bravest thing she has ever said.
"Then this is where you learn. Stay with me. Don't perform. Just feel what's happening."
She nods. Her eyes hold mine, and the vulnerability in them is so total that the ache behind my ribs eclipses the ache in my body.
I begin to move in slow, deep strokes that let her feel every inch, that give her body time to accommodate and respond.
Her legs wrap around my hips and her heels press into the backs of my thighs, pulling me deeper on each stroke, and the sounds she makes are not the sounds she gives the Doms at Dominion.
These are unscripted, involuntary, pulled from somewhere below the performance by the specific angle and the fullness and the rhythm I'm setting with my hips.
"Faster," she says.
"No."
"Andy, I swear to God..."
"You're going to take the pace I give you." I punctuate the sentence with a stroke that grinds deep and holds, pressing against the spot inside her that makes her breath stutter, and her back arches and her fingers dig into my shoulders and the protest dies on her tongue.
"You're a bastard," she manages, but the word has no teeth. It comes out breathy and wrecked and she's clenching around me tight enough that maintaining the slow pace is costing me everything I have.
"You've mentioned that. Hold onto me."
I shift the angle, bracing on one forearm and sliding my free hand under her lower back, tilting her hips up to meet mine.
The new position changes the depth and the pressure and the first stroke at this angle drags a sound from her that she doesn't try to swallow, a full-voiced cry that vibrates through her chest into mine.
"There," she gasps. "Right there, don't you dare move."
"Wasn't planning on it."
I find a rhythm at this angle, steady and deep, and the wet sounds of our bodies moving together fill the room alongside her breathing and mine and the creak of the mattress under my knees.
Her skin is slick with sweat where our bodies press together.
I can taste the salt of it when I lower my mouth to her throat, and the combination of her taste and the feel of her around me and the sound of my name in her mouth is eroding my control faster than anything I've felt in years.
She's close again. I can feel it in the way her body tightens around me, the muscles in her thighs tensing, her breathing going shallow and fast. Her fingers press into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and the bite of her nails in my skin sharpens everything, the pleasure and the pressure and the need that has been building between us since I first watched her pour a drink and memorized every move she made.
"Come for me," I tell her. "Let me feel it."
She does. Her body locks around mine and the orgasm pulls through her in contractions I can feel gripping my cock in rhythmic pulses, and the intensity of it, the sound she makes and the way her body bows against mine and the absolute absence of performance in any part of it, pushes me to the edge and holds me there.
And then her breathing catches on something that isn't pleasure.
The shift is fast. One second she's riding the aftershocks, her body loose and trembling, and the next her breathing has gone shallow and erratic and her eyes are wide open and fixed on the ceiling. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, and the grip isn't desire anymore. It's anchor. It's drowning.
"Renata." I stop moving. I lower my full weight onto her, covering her, containing her in the press of my body against hers. My hand comes to her face, turning her toward me. "Look at me. Right here."
"I'm..." Her voice fractures. "I don't... it's too..."
"Tell me your color."
The question cuts through the spiral. Her eyes find mine, and the panic in them is the specific kind that comes from feeling too much rather than too little, the overwhelming exposure of letting every wall down at once and discovering that the space behind them is vast and uncharted and she has no map.
"Yellow," she whispers. "I'm yellow. I don't want to stop. I just... I can't..."
"You don't have to do anything." I hold her gaze and let my breathing slow, let the rhythm of my chest against hers give her something to match.
My thumb traces her cheekbone, slow and even, a point of contact she can track.
"Stay with me. Breathe with me. You're safe and I'm here and this doesn't go any further until you're ready. "
She breathes. The shallow gasps catch and stutter and gradually, in increments I can feel against my ribs, deepen into something that approximates her normal rhythm.
Her grip on my shoulders loosens. The blankness in her eyes clears, and what replaces it is the raw, unguarded expression of someone who just learned that vulnerability doesn't have to mean free fall, that someone can catch her before she hits the ground.
"Okay," she says. "Green."
"You're sure."
"I'm sure. Stay."