Chapter 46 #2
He disentangles himself, slides to the side of the bed, and stands. Clarke props herself up on her elbows to watch while he pushes his boxers down. His dick springs free and bobs up toward his stomach as he kicks the garment away.
She’s felt and seen his cock before, but never in the context of That’s going to be inside of me. He’s…big. Not so big that she’s worried about the fit, but certainly big enough that she’s going to feel it for days after, and her lower belly tightens at the thought. She loves that, when—
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, gruff, taking himself in hand for a lazy stroke. “That look on your face. Tell me.”
Two can play at that game. Clarke shifts onto one forearm and trails the other hand down her body, slipping it under her boxers, toying with her clit. Sparks swell; she rides them out with big, shaky breaths. “I’m thinking I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”
Julian’s eyes are pinned to the motion of her hand, concealed by fabric. “And you like that.”
“I do. I like the reminder. I’ll be walking somewhere, or—ah—training, or sitting down for a meeting, and I’ll feel it.”
He grabs her ankle and hauls her unceremoniously across the mattress.
He bends over her, fingers curling into the elastic of her (his) boxers, kissing beneath her belly button and across to her hip bone before flicking his eyes up to hers.
“I want you to tell me, every time that happens. Every time you’re remembering what we do here tonight—and tomorrow morning—you need to message me. ”
Clarke lifts her hips. “So you can think about it, too?”
“So I know what record to break next time,” he says, and pulls her last bit of clothing free.
They move back up the bed together, kissing and touching and reveling in the lack of barriers.
He slips a hand between her legs, briefly reintroduces himself to her clit, and slides a finger into her.
She’s soaked, and the glide is easy. A second finger soon joins the first, crooking and coaxing.
He braces his weight over her, lips on her ribs and breasts and collarbones.
She twists her fingers into his hair and arches, needing more of the lightning that crackles under his touch.
He eases his knees between hers, spreading her thighs to either side of his hips, and withdraws his fingers.
He takes himself in hand again, using her wetness to slick up his cock, and she clenches around nothing.
Impatient, she goes for her clit—she’d been getting close, damn it—but he lunges forward, seizing her wrist and pinning it to the mattress beside her head.
“On my cock, Mads,” he murmurs, dropping his hips and dragging himself up her folds. “I want to feel you come on my cock.”
“Then get on with it,” Clarke demands, reaching between them.
All the air punches out of him when she wraps her fingers around his dick and guides it to her entrance, but he recovers quickly and starts pressing in, in, in.
Memory never does the first stretch justice, and even if it did, it wouldn’t be the same, because this is Julian.
That’s Julian’s dick that she’s parting around, Julian’s fingers leaving her wrist to wrap around her hip and hold her steady, Julian’s thighs pressing hers open wider as he sheathes himself fully in her body.
He holds there for a moment, giving them both the chance to adjust. Clarke breathes shallowly, gingerly, willing herself to relax, unable to get a single muscle to unwind.
When she can focus on anything other than the live wire that is her body, she turns her attention to Julian. His eyes are screwed shut, and his arms are shaking. She coasts her fingers up them. “You okay?”
His eyes pop open, pupils blown wide. “Am I—yes, Clarke, I’m okay. You feel incredible. I’m just having to work very hard not to have this end embarrassingly quickly, and—you know what? Hold on.”
He pulls out and flips her. It happens fast, his motions confident, the assuredness of someone who knows exactly what his body can do.
Clarke has just enough time to adjust to being on her hands and knees before he’s sliding into her from behind, a firm grip at her waist pulling her onto him, and then he’s dropping forward to blanket her with his body.
Before her elbows can give under their combined weight—not that she’s not strong enough to hold him up, but she can’t do it while he’s lighting her up like this—he wraps his arms around her chest, tugs them both upright, then sits back on his heels.
Clarke, held tight with her back to his chest, goes with him. Her knees splay wide over his. The angle and gravity allow his cock to slide even deeper, pressing in and forward, and she very nearly comes just from the sudden, unrelenting pressure on the most sensitive spot of her inner walls.
His arms loosen around her ribs. One of his hands snakes up between her breasts and takes a light grip on her throat; the other slides down between her legs and traces where she’s spread around him. She shivers under the sensation, all thin skin and electricity.
“There we go,” he says, voice gravelly, dragging a bit of her leaking wetness up to swirl around her clit. “Now, about those multiple orgasms.”
It doesn’t take much. She’s strung out with desire, barely hanging on, and his casual manhandling combined with the new position have her perilously close to the edge already.
He holds her there, whispering filthy things into her ear, strumming her clit, grinding up into her, occasionally flexing the fingers around her neck or winding them up to her jaw, keeping it open so he can hear her sounds.
Hear her begging, really, because that’s what it becomes, just a litany of Julian and please and there don’t stop please right there—
She shatters into pure pleasure, stars and fireworks colliding all through her body.
He bites at her shoulder as she goes over, pinpricks of pain serving as a counterpoint, providing an anchor so she doesn’t drift away into the cosmos.
He gives her precious little time to settle back into her skin, though, pushing up off his heels and nudging her forward, positioning her with her chest against the sheets and her ass in the air before she’s even aware that she’s being moved.
He rocks into her once, experimentally, and Clarke keens.
“I know, I know,” he soothes, running a hand down her spine. “But you came so hard on my fingers that second time in my prep room, and you’re taking me so well, and I did try to warn you about me.”
He rocks into her again, disrupting her attempt to get her palms against the mattress.
She swats backward at him blindly; he catches her wrist and presses it into the small of her back.
Uses it as leverage for his next thrust. Lets go and holds still, buried in her up to the hilt. “Do you want me to stop?”
Clarke can’t think. Can’t take a deep breath without feeling him inside her.
Can’t process anything other than the ghost of his fingers on her wrist, at her throat, between her legs, in her hair, or feeling his actual fingers kneading the muscles of her ass, spreading her apart so he can see where she’s split open around him.
“Let’s call it a race,” she manages, proud of herself when the words come out at all regardless of how breathless they are. “First to the finish line?”
Julian laughs. It shakes his whole body, and Clarke’s, too. “You already had a warm-up lap! That doesn’t seem fair.”
Clarke gets her forearms under her and rolls her hips, drawing a long groan out of Julian. “Then you’d better catch up.”