Chapter 12
Cheese Fries
IRIS
“I should go. It’s getting late.”
Elliot cocks his head.
“You haven’t eaten yet,” he says.
“It’s alright. I’m not hungry.”
He chuckles through his nose, a faint grin curling at the corners of his mouth as he rolls his eyes.
“You’re a bad liar, you know that?”
“No, I’m not.”
His grin widens.
“Yes, you are. I can smell you from here.”
“Ew.” I press my thighs together. “I hate when you say that.”
“Why? You smell amazing.”
He demonstrates his dedication by sucking in a deep breath, and I shift in my seat as he groans, but I make no move to stand.
“Elliot, I’m not hungry.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to convince both him and myself. “Really.”
He tilts his chin up, glaring at me down the bridge of his wide nose, the two hoops in his left nostril flaring as he continues to scent me.
“Show me,” he says.
“Show you what?”
His brows lift, and his gaze slides down to my knees before moving back up to my face.
“I want to see her. If she isn’t already weeping for me, I’ll take you home.”
He shrugs a shoulder as if it’s so simple, and I sit there, unwilling to act.
I can already taste his lust in the air, that spicy flavor, mixing with his usual fragrance, like cinnamon peppermints. He’s practically drooling as he stares at me, and the sight has me fisting the armrests.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, legs now crossed.
“No, what’s ridiculous is you starving yourself because you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you,” I correct.
I’m just…tired. I guess.
“Good. Then prove me wrong.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms as he waits for me to comply. But I hesitate, biting my lip.
I know what lies between my legs. I could feel it the moment I walked into his room back at Crescent House—fuck his slick grin and deep voice—it’s been spreading ever since.
If I leave now, I might be able to swallow it back down and ignore it for the next couple of days, but the longer I sit here, the less likely that seems. And Elliot knows how to play this game.
He spreads his legs, revealing the thick imprint of his dick, already stiff in his jeans, and my mouth begins to water.
Damn him.
With a sigh, I part my knees, and Elliot’s breath catches at the sight of my pink panties and the wet spot forming in the center.
He nods, grunting as he adjusts himself, and I watch the bulge in his pants grow thicker. He palms it, shifting the swell to the left side.
Maybe I’m not the only one who’s hungry.
“Take them off,” he demands, breath shallow.
“You first.”
His tongue slides over his lips, and he traps the little silver ball in the center between his teeth. But his anticipation only lasts a moment.
He holds my gaze as he works the button on his jeans, and I get distracted as he frees himself, fisting his dick just above the waistband of his boxers.
Elliot is the only man I know with a dick prettier than his face. Which is saying something, given he could probably turn Medusa to stone.
It’s long and thick, and dark as he is. And I can’t help but gawk at it as it sits in his hand, proud and full, head swollen with unmet need, the piercing in the top glinting in the light.
“Your turn,” he says, rubbing the skin beneath his head with his thumb.
Fair is fair.
I hook a finger in the waistband of my underwear, and he swallows hard as I drag them down my thighs and over my knees before stepping out. When I’m free of them, I hike up my skirt around my hips and spread my legs as wide as the corners of the armchair will allow.
Elliot’s body tenses at the sight.
“Fuuuuck.”
“Still not a fan?” I ask, watching as his eyes gloss over and his gaze fixes between my thighs.
“Baby, I don’t care what you do down there. As long as I get to see her.”
He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief, and I slide my fingers through my wet flesh just to see his reaction.
With a rumbling growl, he utters another curse, this time, slipping further down in his seat and spreading his legs a little wider. His wrist pumps, slow and methodical, and I watch unabashedly.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him like this. Far from it, actually. But it’s my favorite snack, never gets old.
Together, we drive ourselves to the edge, but not over. Not yet.
“Do you remember when we first did this?” Elliot asks, drawing my attention up to his face. “When I first fed you?”
My heart jumps as the memory hits me, and a hot flush sweeps over my body.
“It’s not exactly easy to forget,” I say, cheeks warm.
He grins, and his head lolls back against the chair.
“I thought I’d died and gone to heaven,” he says. “I’d never tasted anyone so sweet in my life. Still haven’t.”
At some point in his reminiscing, he returns to stroking himself, and he gestures with his chin for me to do the same, groaning the moment my fingers find my clit.
“I always thought of you after that,” he confesses quietly.
He doesn’t say when he thinks of me, but he doesn’t have to. I already know, because I think of him too.
I think of his hands.
His tongue.
His teeth.
The sound he makes when he comes.
No matter how I try, each time I touch myself, I imagine Elliot. Just as he is now, stroking himself to the thought of me.
“Always?” I ask, that word standing out among the rest.
His eyes have slid shut, and he breathes a heavy sigh as he nods and strokes himself a little harder.
“Every time,” he says.
Pre-cum eeks out over his fingers, desperate to be free, and he works it over his head, using it to lubricate himself.
A passing thought occurs to me as I see his dick glistening.
I want to know what he feels like between my legs.
I’ve considered many times how it would feel.
Would he move fast? Slow? Hard?
Just watching him, I think I can guess.
“Do you remember what you said to me after?” he asks.
Yes.
I shake my head, fingers moving with more urgency.
“No,” I squeak out.
“You said I could eat it whenever I want. Is that still true, baby?”
His gaze finds my face, eyes half hooded, and my hands still between my legs as I nod.
He stands abruptly, stuffing himself back in his pants, before stalking forward and kneeling in front of me.
“Good. ‘Cause I’ve missed you.”
There’s only a moment before his tongue is on me. He grips me behind the knees, dragging me to the edge of my chair and propping my legs up on his shoulders.
I don’t argue as he arranges me to his liking. Elliot’s tongue is nothing short of a gift to women. Men, too, if he ever thought to try it. If he wants me dangling from the ceiling, who am I to complain?
He plants a trail of fervent kisses along my thighs before pressing his lips to my clit. He kisses it slowly, groaning into my wet flesh, and my body heats, pulling from him.
“Oh, gods.” I moan, clawing at his shoulders. “Elliot…”
His tongue sweeps through me, teasing and prodding, and I am reduced to a mewing mess as he drinks from me. Left with nothing but his name on my lips as my body climbs toward its peak.
“Elliot!” I shout. “Fates! One!”
He abides by my command, and my power swells as he pours into me, rendering his energy mine. His fingers grip me tighter when it starts to burn, but he doesn’t slow.
Elliot is not a gentle lover. He gives you what you need, not what you ask for.
What I need tonight turns out to be a string of orgasms, each more frantic than the last, with my only reprieve being the few moments he pauses to praise me.
“Fuck, baby. Why do you taste so good? It doesn’t make any sense.”
He laps at me again, tonguing me slowly before returning to his savage dining.
I lose count after my eighth one, but Elliot shows no signs of stopping, and I resort to pleading for my freedom.
“Elliot,” I beg, breathless. “Please, no more.”
He slows, pressing a thumb to my sensitive skin and denying me any respite.
“What’s wrong, princess? You full?”
I shake my head.
No, I’m far from full. But he can’t go for much longer. Every stroke brings him closer to being drained where he kneels.
“You can’t—” I say.
An orgasm rolls through me as he circles my clit, and my words are cut off by my own desperate sounds.
“Oh gods, Elliot. Please…Ohhh, fuck.”
He grins at the sound of my tortured pleasure. But I’m not placating to his desire. He is toeing a line that he shouldn’t be.
“Elliot,” I warn. “It’ll kill you.”
He only shrugs before delving back between my legs, and as I look at him, face framed between my thighs, the flavor of his lust hanging thick in the air, I realize something. Something I feel I should have noticed by now.
Elliot doesn’t care if he lives or dies.
In fact, I think he’s almost hoping that he won’t.
Panic steals my breath, and my heart begins to hammer as I picture him dead between my legs. And in the haze of my own desire, I do the only thing I know how.
“Cheese Fries!”
Elliot stops.
His hands fall away, and he rocks back on his heels.
“Are you alright?” he asks. “Did I hurt you?”
I ignore him as I fix my skirt and gather my underwear off the floor.
“Iris, are you—”
He reaches for me, and I shake him off.
“You know what, Elliot. If you want to kill yourself, go ahead. Just do me a favor and do it on your own time.”
He blinks, standing with his mouth slightly ajar, but I don’t look back as I stalk forward toward the nearest dais and slam my hand down on the wood.