28. Skylar #3
In a split second, he’s standing, hauling me up with him and gently tossing me on the couch.
He lowers his pants and boxers, discarding them before he descends on me, peppering kisses along my jaw, my collarbone, down to my belly.
His breathing accelerates as he positions himself at the apex of my thighs and slowly pushes inside me.
The burn of the stretch is immediate. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone inside of me, let alone someone his size, but I welcome the sting.
It’s the good kind of pain, like the kiss of the sun or sore muscles after a long walk.
I don’t merely tolerate it, I bask until it turns into more of a dull ache.
Then it’s gone and there’s only pleasure, buzzing, frantic, intense.
“Is this okay?” he asks, and I realize he hasn’t even started moving yet. When I don’t immediately answer, he speaks again. “Skylar, please say something.”
“Yes. I’m okay. I’m just savoring the moment.”
He chuckles, low and deep, and I wish for a second that I could bottle the sound and let it out when this ends.
When I’m alone again.
“Fuck, I need to move, baby,” he says.
“Do it.”
He shifts his weight, repositioning himself before slamming back into me. “Fuck.”
His hands frame my face, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he continues to thrust. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to be back inside this tight pussy.” He thrusts again. “How long I’ve fucking ached for it.” Another thrust. “How hard I tried to remember what it felt like.”
Tears spring to my eyes as he pounds into me, his rhythm steady and relentless. “The memories didn’t do it justice. Nothing compares to being buried deep inside you, Firefly. Fucking nothing.”
I don’t know if it’s his words or the surge of pleasure coursing through my body, but it’s suddenly too much, too intense, too everything. Pushing against his chest, I turn over until I’m on my stomach, causing him to slip out. He doesn’t do anything, so I press my ass against him.
“Skylar…”
“I want to do it like this,” I pant.
His hands are warm as he rests them against my sides, gripping them before he drives his hips forward.
He’s so much deeper at this angle, and I cry out at the new sensation.
He continues the movement, sinking deeper with each thrust until I'm breathless.
My inner walls tighten with my impending orgasm, which I know he can feel because he curses as he continues to slam into me.
I call out his name as the wave crests, ready for the fall but then…
“No no no.” He slows down. “Stay with me, baby. Don’t come yet.”
I grind my hips in frustration, arching back into him, but he holds me in place. “I need to see you. Please, Skylar. I don’t deserve it, but I need it.”
This feels like a turning point, a fork in the road, a decision that changes the course of our relationship.
“Baby. Look at me. Please look at me,” he pleads.
I turn around, my eyes moving slowly until they finally meet his.
He grips himself, pushing his way back in and moving his hand up to rest against my throat.
His eyes scan my reaction, questioning, asking for permission, and I eagerly grant it.
Reaching forward, I cover his hand with mine, pressing until it’s the right amount of pressure.
I can feel my pulse beating into the pads of his fingers as he drops his forehead to mine.
Using his free hand, he traps my clit between his thumb and index finger.
Between that and his hand around my throat, it doesn’t take long for my orgasm to come barreling back, ripping a scream from my throat as I convulse around him.
He follows right after, slamming his lips to mine to stifle his moans as he empties himself inside me.
We stay like that, unmoving, for minutes or hours, I couldn’t tell you.
Then he pulls out, gathers some of the cum sliding down my thigh, and pushes it back inside me.
I’ve never experienced anything so possessive in my life.
I wish I could say it freaks me out, but it only makes me want to do it all over again.
Declan finds a throw blanket on the side of the couch and drapes it over both of us, pulling me in and wrapping his arms around me. We sit in silence for a while as he plays with the chain of my locket.
“My dad gave it to me,” I admit. “For my twenty-first birthday. There’s a picture of me on one side and my mom on the other. I think it was his way of apologizing for not being there for either of us.”
His head moves as if he’s nodding, but all I can feel is the slight scratch of his stubble against my neck. He doesn’t have to say anything. I know he gets it.
“I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about it.”
“You should be,” I say playfully.
“And this?” he asks, lifting my hand and brushing his thumb against my ring finger. “I thought you said it was a cage.”
My eyes grow heavy, the exhaustion from what we did setting in. My next words are whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “It’s not a cage if I choose to wear it.”