Chapter 13 #3
“Not quite,” he says, smirking against my throat before dipping his fingers again. “But I’ll make you pray.”
He paints more batter across my breasts with torturous precision—his fingers tracing slow, teasing spirals that make my skin prickle with goosebumps.
The sticky sweetness cools against my flushed skin as he draws a cross over my sternum, pressing just hard enough that I feel the pressure against my racing heart.
When he traces a filthy little heart just above my nipple, I can't help but arch into his touch, desperate for more as the wetness between my thighs becomes unbearable.
Then he drops to his knees, his eyes locked on mine—dark and hungry, pupils blown wide.
I can see my own reflection in them: splayed open, vulnerable, wanted.
His hands grip my thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he spreads me wider.
My pussy is swollen and pink, slick with need, my clit throbbing visibly with each heartbeat.
When his tongue makes contact, I feel the rough texture against my tender flesh—deliberate, reverent.
He moans against me like a starving man tasting salvation, the vibration shooting straight through my core.
His stubble scrapes the sensitive skin of my inner thighs as he devours me, leaving marks that will remind me tomorrow who I belong to tonight.
The batter is cool against my flushed skin, but his mouth — fuck, his mouth — is fire. Wet, hot, possessive. Every suck, every bite, every slow swipe of his tongue is designed to ruin me, to leave nothing behind but trembling limbs and moans I can’t swallow.
“You taste better than any sin I’ve committed,” he groans, licking across my ribs. “And that list is fucking long.”
He spreads my thighs, pulls me to the edge of the counter again, and looks up at me with that feral, reverent heat in his eyes.
Then he paints a thick line of batter down my stomach. All the way to where I throb for him most.
He licks.
Slow. Dragging. Sticky and sinful.
“You’re gonna break me,” I whisper, dizzy with it.
“No,” he says, licking back up. “I’m just getting started.”
And then he's inside me—his pierced cock stretching me open, the metal barbells dragging against my walls as he pushes deeper.
The thick ridge of his head catches on every sensitive spot, the steel ring at the tip pressing places I didn't know could feel so much.
I feel myself clench around him, pulsing against cold metal and hot flesh until I'm crying out his name like it's the only word I remember.
“Dax—”
“That’s it,” he grits, fucking into me slow but hard, holding my thighs open as he drives deeper, rougher, sweeter. “Say my name while I take what’s mine.”
“Yours,” I gasp, fingers gripping the edge. “I’m yours—”
“Fuck yes you are.”
He pounds into me as he licks the last of the batter from my chest, groaning like the taste of me is addictive, like I’m feeding a hunger he’s tried to bury for years.
“I should stay away from you,” he growls against my ear. “I should have walked away the moment I saw you.”
“But you didn’t,” I breathe.
“No. I fucking couldn’t.”
He thrusts harder, his grip bruising, his mouth everywhere.
“But I can’t just keep fucking you, butterfly…”
He slows suddenly, lips brushing my ear. “Let me take you out again. Let me do this right.”
I blink through the haze, dazed and aching and desperate.
“You asking me on a date, soldier?” I whisper.
He laughs against my throat, thrusting deeper. “I’m asking for everything.”
I don’t even realise I’m shaking until he stills inside me.
His fingers are still sticky from the batter.
His mouth is still hot from everything he just took.
And his eyes — God, those eyes — are on fire when he pulls back, grabs the bottle of syrup from the counter behind me, and holds it up like a promise.
“Breakfast isn’t over.”
My legs are still shaking, my body still aching from the first round, but I nod.
He pops the lid with his teeth, never breaking eye contact.
The honey catches light like liquid amber as he tips the bottle, his pupils blown black with hunger.
The first scalding drop hits my sternum with a sound that makes my thighs clench.
I gasp as it pools there—warm, forbidden, primal—before he tilts the bottle again, painting a glistening path that makes my nipples tighten painfully.
The honey crawls down my ribs, pooling in the hollow of my navel, sticking to my skin like his fingerprints.
His jaw clenches, throat working as he swallows hard, watching the viscous sweetness claim me like he's marking territory no man will ever touch again.
His mouth is on me — everywhere — tongue licking and sucking syrup from my skin like it’s ambrosia, groaning against me like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that’s ever fed him.
“You taste like sin,” he breathes. “Sticky, sweet… and fucking mine.”
He grabs my thighs and lifts me effortlessly, syrup smearing across his hands and dripping between us as he carries me to the table and lays me out like a goddamn feast.
Then he goes lower. His eyes lock with mine as he tips the bottle, letting honey drip in a slow, golden stream between my legs.
I gasp as the warm sweetness pools against my swollen flesh, trickling into every fold, catching in the soft curls.
My hips twitch involuntarily as the sticky warmth seeps into places already slick with want.
He watches, transfixed, as the amber liquid glistens against pink, his breath catching when I shift and everything gleams in the low light.
He trails kisses along the path of sugar, licking it away slowly… possessively… until he finally reaches—“Oh fuck,” I cry out, hips jolting as his mouth takes me.
His tongue parts my swollen pussy lips, hot and insistent.
Each slow drag sends electricity up my spine as he licks through my wetness, moaning like he's tasting something sacred.
When he sucks my clit between his lips, my hips buck wildly against his face.
Syrup mingles with my arousal, making everything slick and filthy as his tongue plunges inside me, fucking my pussy with such hunger I can't tell where his mouth ends and my body begins.
I'm trembling, desperate, my fingers tangled in his hair as he devours me like he needs my pleasure to survive.
“Look at me,” he growls against me. “You feel that?” he says, voice dark and thick with heat. “That’s what it means to be mine.”
I nod, lost in the haze.
Then he flattens his tongue against my clit, dragging it up with slow, deliberate pressure that makes my thighs quiver around his head. His stubbled jaw scrapes my inner thighs as he works his mouth against me, hungry and relentless, his fingers spreading me wider so he can taste deeper.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp, nails clawing the table.
“Fucking right you are.”
He doesn’t stop until I’m crying out his name again — syrup-slick, broken open, wrecked in the best way and when he finally lifts his head, mouth glistening, chest heaving?
He smiles. “You still want pancakes, butterfly?” he smirks, voice pure sin.
I laugh, breathless. “Only if you serve them on your abs.”
I barely catch my breath before he’s reaching behind him again—grabbing something else off the counter with that sinful smirk that makes my thighs clench.
Chocolate sauce.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I whisper, my voice still ragged from the last orgasm.
“Breakfast of champions, baby,” he murmurs, popping the lid. “You think syrup ruined you?”
He tilts the bottle. The chocolate spills over the lip in a dark, glossy stream that catches the light as it falls.
It hits my collarbone with shocking warmth, making me gasp as it pools in the hollow of my throat before overflowing.
He watches, pupils blown, as it trails between my breasts, leaving a glistening path down my sternum.
The sweet scent rises with my body heat.
When it reaches my navel, his breathing changes—rougher, hungrier.
His fingers intercept the flow, gathering the chocolate before sliding between my thighs where I'm already slick and swollen.
His touch is reverent yet possessive as he marks me there, his eyes never leaving mine, silently promising what that mouth will do next.
“You’re killing me,” I whisper.
He grins, dark and wolfish. “No, butterfly. I’m worshipping you.”
Then he leans down and licks every last drop off me.
Slow, greedy laps of his tongue. He’s moaning like it’s the first real taste of happiness he’s ever had. His teeth graze. His mouth devours. He drags his tongue between my thighs like he wants to ruin me for anyone else.
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever had,” he groans, mouth slick with sugar and chocolate and me. “Sweet. Filthy. Mine.”
I can’t even form words. I’m just writhing—sticky, aching, and soaked in sugar and sweat and want.
He looks up, mouth smeared, chin wet, and wipes it with the back of his hand. Doesn’t bother cleaning the rest. Just climbs up my body, rubbing all that syrup and chocolate onto me—into me—until we’re both a mess.
Until his tongue is everywhere at once—lapping at my neck, dragging hot and wet between my breasts, dipping into my navel. His mouth devours me like I'm melting chocolate on his lips.
Until we're slick with sweat and other things, my thighs trembling as he tastes me again and again.
His fingers dig into my hips, holding me open for his hungry mouth. When he finally kisses me, I taste myself on his tongue—sweet and sharp and so fucking filthy I moan into his mouth.
Then he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You ever been fucked while dripping in chocolate, butterfly?”
I shake my head, lips parted.
He smiles. “You’re about to be.”