Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Alyssa
He lifts me with one smooth motion. Like I weigh nothing and mean everything.
He carries me through the house. The light is fading—just enough sun left to paint him in gold and ink, shadows stretching behind us like we’re running from something, or maybe running toward it.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His grip on me says everything—tight around my thighs, his chest pressed to mine, his breath falling fast and uneven.
He takes me to his room.
To that absurdly large bed with white linens that look too pristine for what’s about to happen. He places me there like I’m fragile. Like I’m breakable.
I’m not.
But the way he looks at me makes me feel like maybe I am—and he’s the one who’s slowly putting me back together.
He kneels again, hands on my thighs, then smooths them up and in, thumbs grazing the edge of my panties.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Alybear,” he says, voice low, like gravel dragged through honey. “I’m going to take my time with you . . . showing you how much you mean to me.”
He presses a kiss just above the fabric.
Then another, lower.
The scrap of cotton doesn’t last long. He slides it down inch by inch, trailing kisses as he goes, his breath a warm draft across my thighs.
When he tosses the panties aside, his hands settle on my hips like he’s claiming them.
Claiming me.
And then he lowers his mouth between my legs.
The first swipe of his tongue unravels me. It hits me like lightning. It’s almost as if he already knows what I like and he’s playing the exact song my body wants to sing.
I cry out—half moan, half plea—as he tastes me, explores me, worships every inch like it’s his purpose.
His hands press into my hips, holding me in place when I try to move, to buck, to chase something just out of reach.
“You’re gonna stay right here,” he murmurs, voice muffled against me, lips brushing over slick heat. “You’re gonna let me taste you. Again. And again.”
I dig my fingers into the sheets, knuckles white, thighs trembling. But I push anyway—my hips arching into his mouth, desperate and aching, begging without words.
“Please,” I gasp, breath ragged. “Please, I need—”
He pulls back just enough to blow a slow breath across me. My entire body jerks.
“Oh, you need, huh?” His voice is hoarse with hunger, but there’s that damn smirk in it. That restraint. That patience that’s going to ruin me.
I whimper, pushing up again, trying to chase the heat of his tongue, the softness of his lips, the friction of his stubble. “Don’t tease me—”
He groans low in his throat. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
And he does.
His mouth returns—slow and languid—licking into me with devastating intent. Gentle at first. Barely there. Just enough to drive me out of my mind. I try to move, to grind against his face, but his grip on my hips tightens, anchoring me in place like I’m his to keep.
“You’re so fucking greedy,” he murmurs, his voice low and dark against me. His tongue teases, circling exactly where I need him most. “So sweet when you beg. Go on—tell me what you want.”
“Please,” I gasp, hips twitching as he exhales against my sex, the heat of it making me ache deeper. My fingers clutch the sheets. “Please—”
“Please what?” he growls, the edge of a dare in his voice. “Say it. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his tone, but it’s threaded with hunger, too. I smile—just barely—before giving in, breathless. “Your mouth. Your fingers. I need you. Need you to make the ache go away.”
“This finger?” he asks, slipping one in, slow and deliberate, his gaze locked on mine like he’s cataloging every breath, every sound. “Or do you want to be stretched a little more—maybe two?”
I cry out as he curls the first just right, dragging it along that spot that makes my vision blur.
My back arches off the mattress, but he doesn’t let up.
His mouth is everywhere—tongue flicking, swirling, plunging deep—tormenting me with merciless precision.
He pushes me to the edge and pulls me back again, leaving me soaked, wrecked, trembling for more.
“Fuck,” he groans against me, voice hoarse, mouth wet and greedy. His breath stutters like he’s the one unraveling. Then he slides a second finger in beside the first, stretching me open, filling me so good it borders on obscene.
“You taste like sin,” he growls, rough and reverent, voice vibrating against my soaked skin. “And I’m not stopping until you’re shaking—until you come all over my tongue and beg me to keep going.”
He licks deeper. Rougher. No mercy now. His fingers fuck into me with brutal precision, the rhythm unrelenting. His tongue moves like he knows every inch of me, like he’s hell-bent on ruining me from the inside out. All I can do is take it—take him.
“Dex,” I sob, voice raw, my thighs clamping around his shoulders as pleasure slams into me. My hands fist the sheets like they’re the only thing holding me to the earth.
And then I break.
Splintering apart with his mouth on me, his fingers buried deep, his name torn from my throat like a prayer too filthy to speak in daylight.
He groans as I come, like he can taste it, feel it. He doesn’t stop. Not even when I’m shaking, gasping, wrecked and gone. His mouth keeps moving—slow now, reverent, like he’s savoring the way I fall apart just for him.
He kisses between my thighs, dragging his tongue across oversensitive skin, licking up everything he’s drawn from me like he’s starving for it.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth is slick, jaw tight, breath ragged. His eyes never leave mine—dark, wild, wrecked.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough with hunger. “You taste so fucking good. Sweet. Messy. Mine.”
He runs his tongue along his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep the taste there forever. “I could live down there. Wake you up with my mouth on you. Fall asleep between your thighs. Make you come so many times you forget your own name.”
He kisses the inside of my thigh—slow, filthy, possessive—like he’s branding me with his mouth.
A shiver rips through me, and he lingers there, lips dragging over my skin as he exhales, tasting every tremble he’s caused.
Then his voice drops again, a sinful rasp against my skin. “And I’m not done. Not even close.”
My pulse stutters. I’m soaked, aching, ruined—and still, it’s not enough. “What else?” I whisper, voice trembling with need. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me.”
His eyes flare, a dark glint of heat and possession. “You want more of this filthy mouth?” he growls as he rises to his knees between my thighs. “You’re gonna get it, baby. Every inch. Every word. Every filthy fucking second.”
For a moment, he just looks at me—like he’s trying to burn the image into his memory. Me. Spread out, flushed, wrecked, and waiting for him.
His chest heaves, breath ragged as his hands move to the buttons of his shirt—short sleeves clinging to his biceps, the fabric already loose. He pops them open one by one, slow and deliberate, before pushing the shirt off his shoulders and tossing it aside without ever breaking eye contact.
Then his hands go to his pants. The zipper slides down. He shoves them past his hips along with his boxers, stripping the last barrier between us.
He’s beautiful. All golden skin, defined muscle, and raw want. Thick and hard and already leaking for me.
I reach for him instinctively, hands gliding over his hips, then up—over the tight ridges of his abdomen, every inch of him flushed with heat, vibrating with tension. I want to touch all of him. Taste him. Worship him with my mouth.
But before I can wrap my fingers around the thick length of his cock, he catches my wrists gently, holding them against his chest like he’s barely hanging on.
“Not yet,” he breathes, voice wrecked and ragged with restraint. “If you touch me now, I’ll lose it. I need to be inside you when I fall apart.”
I lick my lips, aching everywhere. “I need you,” I whisper, the words torn from me, raw and breathless.
“You can taste me later,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine, voice low and full of something that feels like a promise. “We’ve got time.”
I whimper, needing him like I need air. Like my body won’t settle until it’s filled with him.
Then he moves—without a second of hesitation.
His mouth trails up from my thigh, over my belly, across the curve of my breast. He licks across my nipple, slow and possessive, before kissing up to the hollow of my throat.
His body brushes mine—heat and slick skin and hard muscle pressing me into the bed.
He kisses along my ribs, over my sternum, up the center of me like he’s offering worship. Every part of him touches me. Surrounds me. Holds me like he can’t bear to let go. Like this means more than just sex. Like he’s already inside me in ways that have nothing to do with his body.
When he finally settles between my thighs, the contact steals the breath from my lungs.
His cock rests at my entrance—hard, swollen, so fucking hot I can feel the throb of him against my slick skin.
He nudges forward, just a little, and the thick head catches on my opening, the pressure exquisite, agonizing.
My hips lift in reflex, chasing more. Desperate for the stretch, the fullness, the unbearable relief of him finally being inside me.
He groans deep in his chest when I move. The sound is low, broken, and filthy. Like he’s falling apart already.
“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut as he presses in, just the tip, barely there, and I gasp at the fullness. The stretch steals the air from my lungs. It’s not even all of him yet, but my body is already clenching, desperate to pull him deeper. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
And then—he stops.
Completely.
He holds himself right there, thick and throbbing at my entrance, like he’s using every last ounce of control not to thrust forward. His breath drags rough against my cheek.