Chapter 13 #3
Then he was back between my thighs, and this time his fingers joined his mouth.
Two of them, sliding into me with no resistance because I was so wet I could feel it on my thighs.
They curled forward, finding that spot inside that made everything go white at the edges, and his mouth sealed over my clit with renewed purpose.
The combination was devastating. His fingers moving in steady thrusts, hitting that perfect spot every time. His tongue circling with the exact pressure he'd learned I needed. His free hand still gripping my hip, holding me in place while he took me apart piece by piece.
The orgasm built different this time. Deeper.
Starting from somewhere in my core and spreading outward like wildfire.
My whole body went tight, muscles locking, breath catching.
This was going to destroy me. I could feel it.
This wasn't going to be a normal orgasm—this was going to be the kind that rewired your nervous system, that left you different after than you were before.
"Daddy," I gasped, barely able to form words. "I'm—it's—please, can I—"
His eyes lifted to lock on mine, watching my face while his mouth and fingers never stopped their perfect rhythm.
"Come for me," he commanded against my clit. "Now."
The permission hit me like a physical force. Everything that had been building, all that denied pleasure, all that desperate need, crashed over me at once. I came so hard my vision went white. Not metaphorically—literally white, like someone had shone a light directly into my brain.
My back arched off the bed as far as the restraints would allow. Every muscle in my body locked tight, then released in waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain. I heard someone screaming and dimly realized it was me, crying out with each pulse of the orgasm that seemed to go on forever.
He didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Worked me through it with the same methodical precision, drawing it out, making it last until I thought I might actually die from pleasure.
His fingers stayed buried inside me, feeling every clench and flutter.
His tongue gentled but didn't stop, easing me through the aftershocks.
When it finally ended, I collapsed against the mattress like someone had cut my strings. Every muscle limp, every bone liquid. I couldn't have moved if the building had been on fire. Could barely remember my own name.
He pressed one final, gentle kiss to my oversensitive clit that made me whimper, then pulled back. His fingers slipped free carefully, and I clenched around the emptiness they left behind.
"Look at me," he said softly.
It took effort to open my eyes, to focus on his face. He was watching me with an expression I'd never seen before—satisfaction mixed with awe mixed with something deeper I didn't have words for.
"Beautiful," he said, and meant it. "So fucking beautiful when you let go."
I wanted to respond, to say something coherent, but my brain hadn't come back online yet. All I could do was lie there, bound and trembling and completely destroyed in the best possible way, while he looked at me like I was a masterpiece he'd created.
Which maybe I was. Remade by his patience, his control, his devastating ability to give me exactly what I needed even when—especially when—it wasn't what I thought I wanted.
He stood up from between my thighs, and I watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he finally—finally—began to strip.
There was nothing slow or teasing about it.
Just efficient movements of a man who'd reached the end of his control.
The black henley came off in one pull, revealing the expanse of his chest that I'd only seen glimpses of before.
My breath caught. I'd known he was big, had felt the strength in his arms when he held me, had seen his body when I’d worked on his wounds, but seeing him like this was different.
His chest was a map of violence—scars crosshatching the muscle, bratva tattoos telling stories in ink and symbolism I didn't fully understand.
A bullet wound near his ribs, starred and pink.
What looked like a knife scar along his obliques.
His body was a testament to survival, to being the one who walked away when others didn't.
His hands went to his jeans, and my mouth went dry. The button, the zipper, then he was pushing them down along with his boxers, and—
Oh.
He was proportional everywhere. Thick and hard and intimidating in the best way.
My body clenched at the sight, some primal part of me recognizing that this was going to be intense.
That the stretch would border on too much.
That he was going to fill me completely, leave no space inside me that wasn't his.
I must have made some sound because his eyes found mine, and there was a question there alongside the hunger.
"I won't hurt you," he said, moving back onto the bed, positioning himself between my bound legs. "Not in any way you don't want."
The addendum made me clench again, because there was promise in it. Promise of the kind of hurt that transmuted into pleasure, the kind that left marks you treasured, the kind that made you feel claimed down to your bones.
He settled between my spread thighs, his weight on his forearms bracketing my body. The position put us face to face, close enough that I could see the striations in his gray eyes, the way his pupils had blown wide with want. Close enough to share breath.
The head of him pressed against my entrance, and we both stopped breathing.
"Look at me," he commanded, though I was already looking, couldn't look away. "Keep your eyes on mine."
I nodded, beyond words. The silk restraints held me open, vulnerable, unable to adjust the angle or control the pace. I was completely at his mercy, and the trust required for that made my chest tight with something that wasn't quite fear but wasn't quite not fear either.
"This is mine now," he said, and began to push inside.
The stretch was immediate and overwhelming. Even with how wet I was from my orgasm, even with his fingers having prepared me, he was almost too much. My body had to yield, had to adjust, had to learn to accommodate him.
He went slowly, watching my face for any sign of real distress. An inch, then pause. Another inch, then pause. Letting me adjust to each increment, even though I could see the strain in his jaw, the way his arms trembled with the effort of holding back.
"Breathe," he reminded me when he was halfway in, and I realized I'd been holding my breath. I exhaled shakily, and the release of tension let him slide deeper.
The fullness was overwhelming. Not just physical but psychological. The weight of him over me, the stretch of him inside me, the silk holding me open for his use—it all combined into something that made my brain go quiet in a way it never did.
No anxiety spinning. No mental calculations. No probability matrices. Just sensation and him and the present moment.
When he was finally fully seated, hips flush against mine, we both groaned. The sound came from somewhere deep, primal, like our bodies were having a conversation our mouths couldn't manage.
"Fuck," he breathed against my lips. "You feel—fuck, Maya."
My name in his wrecked voice made me clench around him, and he groaned again, forehead dropping to mine.
"If you keep doing that, this is going to be over before it starts," he warned.
"Move," I begged. "Please. I need you to move."
He pulled back slowly, just a few inches, then pushed back in. Testing. The drag of him against my oversensitive walls made sparks shoot through my nervous system. Made my bound hands flex uselessly, wanting to touch him, to pull him closer, to rake my nails down his back.
"Perfect," he murmured, finding a rhythm. Slow at first, controlled, watching my face to gauge what worked. When he adjusted his angle and hit that spot inside me, my whole body jerked against the restraints.
"There," he said with dark satisfaction. "Right there."
He targeted that spot with devastating precision, each thrust deliberate, designed to make me lose my mind. And I was. The orgasm I'd just had had only taken the edge off. Now, with him inside me, filling me completely, hitting that perfect spot—I was climbing again.
But this time was different. This time I could feel his control fracturing too. Could see it in the way his rhythm occasionally stuttered. The way sweat beaded on his forehead. The way his breathing had gone harsh and uneven.
"So tight," he ground out, his pace increasing despite himself. "So perfect. Mine. All mine."
The possession in his voice, the claim in it, made me clench harder around him. I wanted to be his. Wanted to belong to this man who'd fed me when I forgot to eat, who'd given me structure when I was drowning, who'd bought cat supplies to give me something normal in all the chaos.
"Yours," I gasped, the word torn from me by a particularly deep thrust. "All yours, Daddy."
The title broke something in him. His rhythm faltered, became less controlled, more desperate. He was fucking me now, not just taking me but claiming me, and the silk restraints were the only thing keeping me from flying apart.
I could feel my second orgasm building, different from the first. Deeper, starting in my core where he was hitting that spot over and over. My bound legs trembled, toes curling, every muscle starting to tense.
"I'm close," I gasped. "Daddy, I'm—can I—please—"
He lifted his head to look at me, and his face was wrecked. Hair damp with sweat, eyes wild, jaw clenched with the effort of holding back his own release.
"Wait," he ground out. "Wait for me. We come together."
The command should have been impossible to follow. My body was screaming for release, everything coiled tight and ready to snap. But somehow I held on, kept myself balanced on that knife's edge while he drove into me with increasing desperation.