20. Bella – The Sensual Dream #2
He sucks my clit now—drawing the swollen bud between his lips and applying suction that sends lightning bolts through my nervous system.
His fingers curl and thrust, finding a rhythm that mimics what I imagine his cock would feel like, and the thought of that—of him inside me, of his cock replacing his fingers—triggers a third orgasm that makes the first two seem like warm-up exercises.
The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain.
"Bella," he says against me, and the vibration of his voice on my oversensitive flesh nearly undoes me again. "You are so beautiful when you come."
I can't respond. I can barely breathe. My body has become a thing he plays like an instrument, plucking strings of nerve and muscle until I produce the sounds he wants to hear.
And I want more. Even after three orgasms that should have left me depleted, I want more. I want him. All of him.
Now he rises.
The shadows cling to him as he moves up my body, obscuring his features, revealing only fragments—the pale luminosity of his skin, the dark hair, the fathomless black of his eyes catching that faint otherworldly glow and reflecting it back like a predator's gaze in the dark.
I see his jaw, dusted with stubble that scraped my thighs.
I see his lips, wet with my arousal, curved in an expression that promises both pleasure and ruin. I see the broad expanse of his chest, the muscles shifting beneath skin that seems to glow faintly, and lower—the lean lines of his abdomen, the narrow waist, the jutting evidence of his own desire.
His cock. Hard, thick, projecting from his body with an urgency that matches the hunger in his eyes. I reach for him—finally, my hands obey me—and my fingers wrap around that hot, rigid length. He hisses through his teeth. The sound is sharp, almost feral, and it makes me clench with renewed need.
"Mine," he says, and the word isn't a question or a statement—it's a decree. A law he's writing on my body with every touch, every kiss, every thrust.
"You are mine, Bella."
He positions himself between my thighs. The broad head of his cock nudges my entrance—still swollen, still slick from his mouth and my orgasms—and he pauses there. Just pauses. Letting me feel the size of him, the heat of him, the inevitability of what's about to happen.
My hands grip his shoulders. My nails dig into that pale, luminous skin. I want to tell him to hurry, to take me, to fuck me until I forget my own name—but he doesn't need my instruction.
He sinks inside me.
One long, slow thrust that buries him to the hilt. My body opens for him—stretching, adjusting, taking, accommodating a thickness that borders on too much and then crosses into exactly right. The sensation is overwhelming.
He fills me completely, his pelvis pressed flush against mine, his cock throbbing inside me where his fingers stroked me before, and I hear myself make a sound I've never made in my life—a low, keening moan that seems to come from somewhere deeper than my throat.
"Bella," he breathes in that deep voice, and his mouth finds my neck. His lips press against the pulse point there, and I feel his teeth graze my skin without breaking it. I'm too lost in the sensation of his cock inside me to care about the warning my instincts are screaming about his teeth.
He withdraws. Slowly, torturously, until only the head remains inside me.
Then he thrusts back in—harder this time, faster, a rhythm that builds like the tide coming in over the rocks at Bloodhaven Cove's shore.
Each thrust pins me to the velvet beneath me.
Each withdrawal leaves me empty and desperate for his return.
The pace accelerates. His hips snap against mine with a force that would bruise if I weren't so aroused, so wet, so ready to be taken exactly like this.
I wrap my legs around his waist. I lock my ankles at the small of his back and pull him deeper with each thrust, matching his rhythm with the desperation of a woman who's been starving for this and didn't know it until this moment.
The angle shifts. His cock hits that spot inside me and the pressure there combined with the friction on my clit from the grind of his pelvis triggers another orgasm.
He moves faster now, pumping, and the sensation is too much as he groans above me.
I come around his cock. My internal muscles seize and ripple, clenching him so tight he groans again—a rough, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine where our bodies press together.
He doesn't stop fucking me through it. He thrusts harder, faster, riding my spasms with a stamina that seems inexhaustible, and the orgasm stretches—ebbing and rebuilding, ebbing and rebuilding—until I lose count of how many times I've peaked.
"You are mine."
He says it again, his voice rough now, that velvety baritone frayed at the edges by his own desire.
His hands grip my hips, tilting them, changing the angle yet again, and the new depth makes me scream.
Not a whimper or a gasp—an actual scream that should terrify me but doesn't because I'm too far gone, too drowned in pleasure, too consumed by this man and his mouth and his hands and his cock and his voice saying my name like it's the only word he knows.
"Bella. Bella. Bella."
Each thrust punctuates a syllable. The rhythm becomes relentless—punishing, claiming, owning.
I'm a vessel for his pleasure and mine, a body made for this specific use, a woman who was always meant to end up on this velvet bed under this shadowed man with his sandalwood scent and his black eyes that see through every defense I've ever constructed.
Another orgasm. Or maybe the same one, prolonged past the point of endurance.
My vision whites out. My hearing narrows to the sound of his voice and the slap of our bodies together.
My sense of touch expands until I feel everything—the velvet beneath me, his sweat-slicked chest against my breasts, his cock buried deep, his fingers digging into my hips with a grip that will leave marks I'll see tomorrow and remember exactly how they were made.
"Mine," he snarls, and his pace becomes savage.
He's past control now—past the deliberate, measured rhythm he started with.
He's fucking me like a man who's waited centuries for this moment and can't hold back any longer.
Each thrust jars my entire body. Each thrust is a homecoming that shatters me again.
I come one final time—or I think it's the final time, but who can count when pleasure becomes a continuous state rather than discrete events?
I clamp around him in waves that seem to last forever, milking his cock with contractions I can't control, and I feel him swell inside me—feel the moment his own orgasm overtakes him with a roar that echoes through the shadowed chamber like thunder across a storm-dark sea.
Hot release floods me. Pulse after pulse, filling me, marking me internally.
His hips stutter and grind, driving his come deeper with each final thrust, and I take it all.
I take everything he gives me because I'm his—because he said so, because my body agreed, because something in me that predates rational thought recognized him the moment his voice spoke my name.
We collapse together. His weight presses me into the velvet, his cock still twitching inside me, his breath hot and ragged.
I'm shaking. I'm crying. I'm laughing—a breathless, disbelieving sound that escapes before I can stop it.
The shadows around us seem to settle, to calm, as if the chamber itself is satisfied by what transpired within its walls.
His lips find my ear. "You made your way back to me," he murmurs, and the words—the same words I've heard in dreams since I was thirteen—send a final shiver through my exhausted body.
Then—
A bell tolls.
The sound cuts through the dark chamber like a blade through silk. Deep, resonant, unmistakable—the same bell that always ends my dream, though I’ve never had a sex dream with him before. The velvet beneath me dissolves. The shadows scatter. His weight disappears. The sandalwood scent evaporates.
I open my eyes.
I’m in my bed. My bedroom. My new home in Bloodhaven Cove, with the fog pressing against the windows and the clinic downstairs. Dawn light—gray and thin—seeps through the curtains.
I'm alone. I'm awake. Charlie is asleep by the door. My skin is flushed and trembling. My pulse races like I've sprinted through the streets. And between my wet thighs, the phantom sensation of his mouth, his fingers, his cock lingers like a brand that won't fade.
The town doctor. The woman who is strict and careful.
All of that feels very far away. What feels close—what feels immediate and real and impossible to dismiss—is the memory of his deep voice saying my name, his tongue on my clit, his cock inside me, and those final words that have haunted me for seventeen years.
You made your way back to me.
I sit up. I press my palms against my eyes.
I tell myself it was just a dream—intensified by exhaustion and stress and the unsettling reality of living on a new island where the man from those dreams actually exists.
Darius Hunt. The patriarch of Bloodhaven Cove.
The man with the black eyes and the velvety voice and the sandalwood scent.
Just a dream. Just the product of an overtaxed mind and an underfed libido.
The bell tolled. I woke up. The dream ended.