Chapter 51 #2
I curl into him, feeling his arm settle around me—protective, but no longer a cage. His heartbeat is a steady, rhythmic drum beneath my ear. I close my eyes and let the warmth pull me under.
This isn’t an escape or a rescue. This is a choice.
I can feel the tension in him, a trembling held just below the threshold of visible, like a fever pressing at the skin from inside.
He moves so slow it’s almost unbearable, his mouth mapping my collarbones, the notch of my throat, each vertebra down my neck.
His hand stays splayed on my ribs, thumb stroking the heat of my pulse.
I am wide open, skin made of nerves, everything in me tuned to him.
He doesn’t rush to peel my shirt away. He waits for me to pull it over my own head, baring my chest to the cooling air, to his eyes and mouth.
He looks hungry, but not wolfish—hungrier, somehow, for the part of me that aches rather than the part that glistens.
His lips close over my nipple, tongue slow, and I gasp, arching against his mouth.
He groans, a deep low sound that vibrates against me, and then he’s sucking, his teeth grazing just enough to tip sensation toward pain before reeling it back to pleasure.
He kisses a line down my sternum, tongue flicking at the hollow above my stomach, and then he’s got my pants undone.
He doesn’t shove, doesn’t tear—he pulls, slow, careful, sliding the denim down my thighs, peeling it off like wet skin.
He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then another higher, and another, and another, until the heat of his breath is ghosting right at the edge of me, and I am shaking with wanting.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, mouth hovering so close I can feel the air stir.
“I want you to fuck me,” I say, and the words come out cracked open, a gratitude and a demand in the same mouthful of air.
He makes a noise I’ve never heard from him—something between a laugh and a growl—and pushes my thighs apart.
He kisses me there, at the seam of me, tongue hot and soft and slow.
He licks me softly, then faster, a pressure just short of enough, and I knot my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer so he can’t leave even if he wanted to.
He moans again, the sound vibrating into me, and then his fingers are inside, slow at first, then with a rhythm that matches the ache I’ve been holding in my chest for weeks.
I am soaked, leaking down his hand, and the friction is everything.
I grind against his mouth, my body greedy, and he just lets me, lets me use him, lets me fuck his face until I am shaking, until I am cumming, a violent burst that rips through my spine and out of my mouth in a high, whimpering cry.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps licking, keeps sucking until I am wrung out, boneless, sobbing with the pleasure of it, the gift of it. Then he crawls up my body, his jeans already shucked, his cock heavy and hot against my thigh. He kisses me, and I can taste my own salt on his tongue.
He lines himself up, but waits, his eyes searching mine for permission.
I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him down, and I can feel the hot, velvet weight of him nudging at me.
The head of his cock pushes between my folds, slow and insistent, and for a second he just waits there, thick and pulsing against my opening, both of us hovering at the edge.
I can feel the throb of his heart—no, of mine, or both—transmitted up through his cock into the slick wet clutch of me.
He slides in, so goddamn slow I think I’ll lose my mind, stretching me open inch by inch.
My pussy throbs, greedy, squeezing around him, and I feel every microsecond of it, the ridged crown scraping against my heat, the silky skin of him so hot inside me.
I can barely breathe. He buries himself to the hilt, and I gasp, the ache of fullness so sharp it’s almost pain, but he holds himself there, his forehead pressed to mine, panting, one hand knotted in my hair and the other braced at my hip like he’s anchoring himself in this world.
He starts to move, shallow and careful, and I wrap tighter around him, chasing every motion.
My body is hypersensitive, nerves raw, every thrust squeezing out another desperate noise from my throat.
He fucks me slow, like he’s memorising the shape of me around him, and the friction is perfect, so much better than anything I could ever do to myself.
I want to swallow him whole, take him in so deep that he’ll never get out again.
He shifts, angling his hips, and suddenly he’s grinding right against that spot, the one that makes my vision white out at the edges.
I arch up, claw at his back, bite his shoulder just to have something in my mouth as I ride the next wave.
He groans, deep in his chest, and pistons harder, the sound of us obscene in the quiet of the room—wet, fleshly, punctuated by my stuttering breaths and his rough gasps.
He grabs my thigh, lifts my leg over his shoulder, and sinks back in, deeper now, and I swear I can feel him in my fucking throat.
He pounds into me, raw and relentless, and I dissolve under him, every one of my muscles spasming, cunt milking him.
I come again, harder this time, a blackout pulse that rips through me so hard I forget my own name.
He shudders, curses, pulls out just enough to watch himself disappear into me—his cock glazed, slick, glistening—and then slams home with a ferocity that shatters me again.
He cums with a guttural sound, hips jerking, and I feel the heat of him flooding me, thick and endless, a primal pulse that pushes out around the base of him and spills down my ass and thighs.
He collapses on top of me, pinning me to the mattress, both of us shaking, breathless, sweat-slick and spent.
After, he cradles my face, brushing the hair from my eyes, and kisses me with a gentleness that undoes me more than anything he did with his body.
I cling to him, around his hips and pull.
I want him inside me again so bad it feels like drowning, like waking up gasping from a perfect dream.
The head of his cock brushes against my cunt and I feel the pre-come slick against my skin.
I reach down and wrap my hand around him, guide him to me—he’s thick and heavy, velvet skin over rigid bone, the blunt tip bumping against my clit before he sinks in, slow as honey pouring.
The stretch of him is fucking exquisite.
I want to split open for him, to take all of him so deep he scrapes something raw and new in me.
He’s slow at first, every inch a question, his mouth pressed against my ear, whispering how good I feel, how tight, how wet.
He grinds his hips and I can feel the base of his cock, the soft hair at his groin, the muscles in his thighs straining.
I dig my nails into his ass and pull him deeper, and he groans, forehead pressed to the hollow of my throat.
He starts to move for real, slow at first, then faster, each thrust a slap of sensation that radiates up my spine and out my fingertips.
He holds my hands down, fingers laced through mine, wrists pinned to the mattress above my head—his hips are grinding, relentless, and every time he bottoms out I’m sure I’ll break.
The room is full of the sound of us, the wet slap and my high whimpers and his animal growl, and the headboard creaking as he slams into me, over and over.
I want to say his name but it comes out a prayer, a sob, a curse.
He grins against my cheek, nips my jaw, and says, “You take it so good. You want it harder?” I nod, desperate, and he gives it to me: a bruising rhythm, the base of his cock rubbing just right against my clit, my cunt stretched and spasming around him.
It’s too much and not enough, I want him to fuck me until I’m ruined, until I’m gone.
I can feel it coming, a surge building in my core, molten and electric.
He knows, somehow—he can feel it, too—and he brings his hand between us, thumb circling my clit, sloppy and perfect, and that’s all it takes.
I cum so hard I see white, my whole body locking around him, clenched him.
He fucks me through it, voice a ragged snarl, and then he’s coming, too, pulse after pulse shooting hot inside me.
The sensation is obscene—how full I am, how I can feel his cock kicking and twitching inside my pussy, the liquid heat of him spilling out around the root, slicking my thighs, mixing with my own mess.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He collapses on top of me, chests heaving, his cock still buried inside, still twitching with aftershocks. He kisses my jaw, my eyelids, the sweat at my hairline. My body is shaking, sated and raw, every nerve singing.
He says something low and sweet against my ear, something about how he wants to ruin me again, how I was made for him.
I shudder. He’s still hard inside me, fat and swollen, the thick ridge of his head catching on my clenching muscles every time he moves even a little.
I can feel the drip of slick and semen leaking down my crack, pooling under my ass.
The smell of us—hot, electric, almost metallic—fills the room.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his eyes are blown wide, pupils drowning out the green.
He palms my breast, thumb swiping over the oversensitive nipple, and his cock kicks inside me at the same time.
I gasp. He laughs, low and mean, and starts to move again—tiny, shallow thrusts, just pushing the head of his cock in and out, teasing, the slow drag of his length a perfect torture.