Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Darby
Mercer wasn’t fragile, and I wasn’t about to treat him like he was.
The way he stored his wheelchair and crutches out of sight said enough.
Same with not mentioning his replacement part until it basically announced itself.
It was hard to be different. Unusual. Niche.
And even though “normal” was a subjective term, it always seemed out of reach.
Truly, there was nothing fragile about the man above me now.
How could there be, when he’d swept me off my feet and tossed me onto his bed like I weighed nothing at all?
His body caged mine, elbows and knees braced at my sides as his wonderfully stubbled jaw grazed my skin.
He moved from my mouth to my throat then down my chest, leaving kisses that were firm, strong, and anything but breakable.
“You’re gorgeous, you know that? The prettiest…” He trailed off and lifted his gaze to mine. “I’m sorry, I don’t know—”
“Girl.” My heart lurched. “Call me a girl.”
He caressed my face, knuckles sweeping across my cheek as he said, “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
My smile chased his touch, nearly ear-splitting.
This crush was about to crush me.
If I were smart, I would have gotten out from under it—stepped back, shut down, and summoned my inner Luxe.
Luxe was untouchable. He could flirt without feeling, tease without trepidation, and he would never get caught wanting something as badly as I wanted this.
But there was no room for Luxe here. He didn’t fit when my skin was this thin and my heart beat so close to the surface.
“Why are you still dressed?” I murmured while I thumbed over the waistband of Mercer’s boxers.
Awareness sharpened his expression, and he sat back, stripping out of his underwear in a series of awkward maneuvers.
The knee was an issue with the mattress giving beneath him and throwing off his balance.
By the time he was nude, he was flushed with embarrassment and trying to find a position that would give him the leverage he’d soon require.
Despite his obvious frustration, I made sure to give his cock an appreciative once-over, then added a lip lick for flair.
My unspoken approval seemed to soothe him, but he was still tense, poised perhaps to run, which would have been a hell of a sight with his ass bare and dick swinging.
The emotion bleeding off him reminded me to take it slow.
More than that, it told me to take charge.
My military man needed a marching beat, something steady to follow, and I had plenty of experience giving direction.
Sitting up, I worked my way around and placed my hands on his arms to direct him toward the headboard.
“Lie back,” I said.
He did and exhaled as he sank against the pillows.
With his body spread out before me, I took a moment to observe.
He was handsome in a rugged way, with muscles sculpting everything from his stomach to his shoulders.
There were a few scars, nothing grievous—nothing besides the obvious—and a trail of wispy brown hair led from his navel to the base of his cock, which was cut and already starting to leak.
I licked my lips again, this time without meaning to, then tore my gaze away.
Passing glances were nice, but too much inspection began to feel clinical. No one wanted to be examined like a bug under a microscope.
Grabbing the condom and lube from where they had been tossed onto the comforter, I handed the rubber to Mercer and poured lubricant into my hand. Then I crept forward, knee-walking my way up his legs, where I took a moment to stroke over the smooth plastic of his prosthesis.
He stilled with the condom halfway unrolled, and his eyes locked onto mine.
There had been fear on his face when I first saw his amputation, panic that was pervasive and innate.
I understood the impulse to hide. When I’d been remade and brought into the world as a demon, I felt that shame.
I knew what people thought and heard what they said.
But I had a job to do. On the stage. In the club.
Death changed a lot of things, but I still had to eat.
My touch climbed higher, over the joint of his knee to his thigh. Maybe someday he’d let me massage away the ache that must have plagued him after hours on his feet at the Dollhouse. Maybe I could convince him there was nothing in him that needed hiding.
Shifting forward, I straddled his hips and settled with his cock pressed beneath mine.
He finished rolling the rubber down to his base, and I wrapped my hand around him, drizzling lube along his shaft before smoothing it over his crown. I stroked longer than I needed to, relishing his breathy sounds and the way his body softened while his cock hardened in my grasp.
He was plenty big, a generous handful, and girthy. The thought of him stretching and filling me had me shifting restlessly, chasing comfort I wouldn’t find until he was inside me. I braced one hand on his shoulder and used the other to guide his cock to my entrance.
The act of penetration was more than familiar, so I focused on Mercer’s face instead. I watched his expression go from awe to bliss as I descended. The blunt tip breached me, coaxing a moan from my lips.
I loved this part—the gradual give followed by the deep, grounding fullness that chased every other thought from my mind. I craved it. Always had.
More than that, I craved the praise. In the back of my mind, I could still hear my mother telling me I was a good boy for making the men happy. For making her proud. I was good at this. Good at sex. It gave me value. Quantifiable worth.
Mercer hadn’t paid for this, but I knew. I kept mental receipts, tallying up numbers no one else could see.
Mama wouldn’t believe what the men paid for me now.
Mercer grabbed my waist as I settled on top of him, and he sank his fingers into the soft space below my ribs.
I gave a slow roll to ensure he was as deep as possible, then paused to let the sensations catch up to him. I didn’t have an actual cunt, but I’d been told it felt different. Tighter, and with more friction. Much more if I hadn’t been so generous with the lube.
Mercer was definitely feeling it, holding me in place while he stared between my legs, searching the shadows for the spot where we connected. I made a note to face away from him next time. Let him see exactly how well I took him.
“Do you like my pussy, Mercy?” I asked. “Are you ready for this little slut to ride your cock?”
“Oh, god…” Mercer’s stomach fluttered with a shaky inhale.
Regripping his shoulders, I pushed up, dragging him out almost to the tip before settling back down. He moved smoothly inside me as I repeated the motion, rising and falling along the length of his cock.
“Tell me I’m a good girl,” I breathed as I thrust in a steady rhythm.
“You are,” he said hoarsely. “Such a good girl.”
“A pretty girl.”
His lips parted, eyes flicking down to where our bodies met before finding my face again. “So pretty, Darby,” he whispered.
“Am I your pretty girl?” The thought made my belly swoop, as did Mercer’s quick, helpless nod in response.
“Yes,” he said, voice trembling. “You are.”
“Say it.”
It was greedy to ask, but that was my vice, after all. For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted more than I should have. And I wanted this now. The approval Mercer had given from the moment we met. The adoration I saw as he looked at me with eyes wide and expression open.
“You’re my pretty girl,” he murmured.
I thought the affirmation would scratch an itch, but instead it created one. The antsy feeling made me clench, milking Mercer’s cock and wrenching a gasp from him.
Locking my elbows, I picked up the pace, driving down until he filled the deepest part of me. Then his cockhead struck the spot that made my toes curl, and words tumbled out between breaths.
“I want you to fuck the pretty out of me. Can you do that, Mercy baby? Make me dirty.”
That was familiar territory. I was better at being a demon whore or a dick-hungry bitch than anyone’s anything. Degradation got men off. They liked it when I fit into the shape of their fantasy. Something illicit, forbidden, a sin they could dominate then dispose of.
I’d asked Mercer for that, and I wasn’t sure he understood when he answered, “I can.”
I bore down on him again.
“That’s right,” I purred. “Big, strong soldier wrecking my cunt with your thick cock. You’re almost too much for me to take.”
He groaned.
We moved together, skin slapping and slicking with sweat. My thighs flexed around him, cinching in every time he pegged my prostate.
Mercer’s hand slid down my back, and his fingers hooked around the base of my tail. I bucked upright, spine arching as a charge like electricity crackled through me. He gripped and stroked, and I leaned into it as hard as I could, eyelids fluttering.
“Sensitive,” I told him, almost a reprimand, while everything in me begged him not to stop.
“Oh really?” He grinned, almost impish, and ran the ring of his hand over the leathery skin.
I whimpered, losing momentum as pleasure and overstimulation collided, confusing my sense of direction. For a moment, I just sat there, impaled on his cock and shaking while sensations crashed and mingled.
Mercer didn’t let the stillness last. He kept rubbing, fingers tracing down my tail, and when I froze, he moved—bucking up into me and knocking loose a pitiful cry.
“Where else are you sensitive?” His crown bumped my prostate as he stroked down my tail, and I hiccupped through a gasp.
“My-my tits,” I stammered.
He smiled, simultaneously smug and lust drunk. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
His palm splayed, then he pushed me forward, sitting up at the same time and stirring his length inside me.
I whimpered as his mouth found my chest. He flicked his tongue across the pearl that dangled from my right nipple, then he moved to the left, teasing one and then the other until I broke out in goosebumps.