9. Chapter 9 #4
My mind was merciless now. I saw her there instead with such clarity it bordered on hallucination.
Her curves soft and lush against the dark leather.
Her breath breaking. Her thighs trembling when a mouth found her.
Her hands white-knuckled on the ropes. The little hitch she gave sometimes when surprised into pleasure.
The line of her throat offered up, exposed, vulnerable only because she chose to be.
The vampire slid two fingers into the witch and curled them.
She cried out.
Bohdan angled the microphone subtly to catch the sound of it, then said, “Finger work requires the same virtues as everything worth doing in this life: patience, adaptability, and not behaving as though your ego belongs in someone else’s body.”
A few patrons laughed under their breath. Nobody looked away.
He kept narrating. Pressure. Pace. Breath.
The witch was shaking by then.
The swing moved in small, needy motions under her, leather sighing against skin, steel humming overhead with each desperate thrust of her hips toward his mouth.
Then he stood.
His trousers were already open by the time the audience registered the shift.
He wrapped one fist around his cock and stroked himself twice—slow, efficient, enough to wet the blunt head and steady the angle.
Thick. Hard. Beautiful in the boringly objective way bodies could be when aroused and unashamed.
The witch looked wrecked already. Hungry for more.
He drew her body flush to his with both hands braced at her thighs and pushed into her in one hard, controlled thrust.
Her cry rang against the back wall and came back altered by the room.
The swing took the force beautifully. Leather held. Rope flexed. Steel remained silent. The design mattered. Everything in Obsidian mattered when done properly.
Bohdan’s voice lowered; the showman in him now almost priestly.
“Penetrative use of a supported swing allows for angle control, depth management, and—if you are not an incompetent—reduced fatigue for both parties. Note the hold at the thigh. Note the bracing through the core. He is not battering her. He is driving.”
That he was.
The vampire fucked her hard. Thoroughly.
Not frantic, not sloppy. Each thrust landed with the force of appetite married to discipline, his body controlling the motion of hers so the swing amplified what he did instead of fighting it.
Her breasts bounced with the rhythm. Her head tipped back.
Her cunt took him wet and open and eager; every push of his hips answered by the helpless swing of her body into the next.
I could not watch without imagining Maddie there.
That was the truth of it. Every leather strap became a place my hands had fastened.
Every sound from the witch’s throat became a sound I wanted from Maddie’s mouth.
I saw my own fingers spreading her thighs wider.
My own mouth at her breast. My own teeth at her neck.
Maddie suspended and writhing, her eyes hazy with trust and lust, letting me take her apart while Bodhan—God save us both—described the mechanics to a room full of voyeurs.
The image struck so hot through my body I had to set down my glass before I cracked it.
The witch came with his cock still buried in her.
One long convulsive shudder seized her from ribs to thighs.
She cried out again, the sound jagged and beautiful, and the swing rocked under the force of it while the vampire kept thrusting, slower now, drawing the climax through her rather than abandoning it to its own collapse.
No one in the room spoke.
No one dared cheapen it.
At the edge of the bar, I lifted my eyes from the stage.
And found Maddie’s.
She stood across the floor with a tray balanced in one hand.
She had worked through the demonstration like the consummate professional she was—tables checked, drinks cleared, fresh glasses set down with steady wrists while the room held its breath for sex in public.
After I'd shamefully dressed her down about her performance weeks ago during a demonstration, she'd proved how wrong I had been.
But in this moment she had gone still. Not for long.
Only long enough for a man looking directly at her to know exactly what he was seeing.
She had made her way back to the bar ready to fill her orders.
Even though she'd tried to keep working, the demonstration was so beautifully erotic she paused, her tray resting on the surface.
She was looking at me. Her shoulders were squared.
Her expression should have been neutral enough to survive the floor.
Then her tongue moved slowly across her lower lip.
It looked unconscious. It was not innocent.
Heat punched through me with such force I felt it in my teeth.
I held her gaze.
Did not smile. Did not break. Merely let her see that I had seen.
Then, because subtlety had become both impossible and unnecessary, I gave a single nod.
Her breath changed. I saw the slight lift in her chest even from where I stood.
And I winked.
Not broadly. Not like a boy. A single deliberate lowering of one eye, intimate as a hand at the back of the neck.
Then I turned from the bar and walked toward the stairs.