29. Bella with Darius #2
My hands find his belt. The leather is smooth, the buckle cold, and I work at it with fingers that shake from the urgency that pulses through me.
He lifts his head—his black eyes meeting mine, and there is a question in them, a final check, a last remnant of the man who once held himself back—and I answer by pulling the belt free, by reaching for the button of his trousers, by making it clear with action rather than words that I want this, that I want him, that I am not afraid of whatever he is.
He rises just enough to shed the remaining barriers—his trousers, his underwear, and then he’s naked above me, and I see all of him.
The lean lines of his hips, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the pale skin that seems to glow with that faint luminosity in the candlelight, and between his thighs, his cock—hard, thick, jutting toward me with an eagerness that matches the hunger in his eyes.
He now strips me with an efficiency of passion. Then I’m naked beneath him on the Persian rug, the golden light of the fireplace dancing across my skin. His eyes trace my body with a gaze that feels like a physical touch—weighty, deliberate, leaving trails of heat wherever it lands.
I reach for him, my fingers wrapping around his shaft. The sound he makes—a low hiss that could be pleasure or pain or both—makes my own arousal spike.
Now I pull him down. My hands on his shoulders, drawing him toward me, and he follows the guidance without resistance.
His body covers mine again—skin against skin now, no barriers, no fabric, nothing between us but the friction of flesh and the heat of desire.
His cock presses against me, and I feel the size of him.
I’m wet enough that the first push slides in with a pressure that is intense and delectable.
He fills me slowly—inch by inch, as though savoring the sensation—and I watch his face as he enters me.
The way his jaw tightens. The way his black eyes flutter closed for a moment before opening again with renewed hunger.
The way his lips part and a breath escapes that sounds like relief, like release, like a man who has been holding his breath for centuries and has finally found a reason to exhale.
Then he moves.
The first thrust is deep and I feel him fill me. The second thrust follows quickly—harder, faster, a rhythm that builds like a storm gathering force. This is raw and urgent.
This is him finally letting go of the restraint for me that he’s carried like a burden, and the result steals my breath, my thoughts, my ability to do anything except feel.
He sends pleasure cascading through my body in waves that build and crest and build again.
I wrap my legs around him again and I use the leverage to meet his rhythm, to push back against him, to demand more with my body because my voice cannot form words beyond gasps and moans and the fractured syllables of his name.
He kisses me between thrusts. Hard, demanding kisses that taste like hunger, that leave my lips swollen and tingling.
The rhythm accelerates and we moan with each thrust together. Each one strikes a place inside me that sends sparks through my vision, makes my thighs tremble around his waist, and builds a pressure in my core.
I’m moaning, continuous, breathless sounds that I cannot control, that fill the sitting room alongside the crackle of the fire and the distant hush of the ocean.
He’s making sounds too—low, rough sounds that vibrate through his chest and into mine, that reveal true hunger that has waited too long for satisfaction.
My first orgasm crashes through me without warning.
The pressure peaks and breaks, and pleasure floods my body in a wave that makes me cry out—his name, a sound that might be a sob, something raw and uncontrolled that tears from my throat as my muscles clench around him and my spine arches off the rug.
He does not stop. He fucks me through the climax, his rhythm steady and relentless, and the continuation extends the pleasure beyond what I thought possible, stretches it into a plateau of sensation that makes my vision blur and my thoughts scatter like ash in wind.
"Again," he says, and the word is a command, a promise, a claim. “Vampires are insatiable, Bella,” he moans.
His hand slides between us—long fingers finding the place where our bodies join, tracing upward to where my clit throbs with the aftermath of the first orgasm and will build toward the second.
He touches me there with a precision of a man who has learned my body in a single night. His fingers circle the swollen peak with a pressure that is rhythmic and perfect, matched to the thrusts of his hips, and the dual sensation drives me upward again with a speed that leaves me gasping.
The second orgasm hits harder than the first. A peak that seems to climb beyond the limits of my body, beyond the boundaries of what sensation should allow, and I break beneath him with a sound that is not a moan but something closer to a scream—muffled by his mouth as he kisses me through it, as he swallows the noise and gives me his breath to borrow.
My nails rake his shoulders, leaving lines that would mark human skin for days but that probably heal on him within minutes. I feel his rhythm falter for the first time with my scream—a sign that my pleasure affects him as deeply as his affects me.
He follows me over the edge. His thrusts deepen, shorten, become urgent with a different rhythm—the rhythm of a body demanding culmination.
His hands grip my hips and hold me exactly where he wants me, and his mouth falls from mine to my throat, his breath hot and rapid against the skin he will not bite, and I feel the tension in him finally letting go.
He comes with a sound that is almost a roar—muffled against my neck, vibrating through my skin and into my bones, a noise of ecstasy.
I feel him pulse inside me, feel the warmth of his come filling me in spurts that match the shuddering of his body, and I hold him through it—arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, legs still circling his waist, body still accepting everything he gives me.
The pleasure of his climax extends my own, creates an echo that ripples through my core in diminishing waves.
We finally lie still. The fire crackles. The ocean whispers. The candles flicker in some imperceptible draft, and the chandelier holds its fractured light suspended above us like a constellation captured in crystal.
I want this—this moment, this pressure, this connection that feels like a rope thrown across an abyss and finally caught on the other side.
He lifts his head. Those black eyes find mine, and in them I see something I did not expect—not satiation, not the calm that follows release, but hunger renewed. A hunger that suggests one climax has not quenched but only whetted his appetite.
"Again," he says, and this time the word is not a command but a question—a question that offers more, that asks if I can take more, that tests whether my desire matches his own.
"More," he says with that deep voice.
One word. A plea, something raw and insistent that vibrates through the space between us. It's the sound of a creature who has tasted something he cannot stop consuming.
I answer by flipping us so that I am now on top of him.
Darius watches me. Those fathomless black eyes, reflecting the firelight like a predator's. He looks devastating—wrecked and composed and seduced all at once, as if he's been fighting a war inside himself and only barely won.
My pulse spikes. The heat that had begun to bank flares again, pooling low and insistent in my belly. I stare down at him—at this impossibly beautiful, impossibly ancient thing beneath me who has been in my dreams forever.
I've spent my life being careful. Measured. The doctor who never loses her composure, who handles crises with steady hands and a cooler head. Very few relationships. I've never been the woman who takes. Who demands. Who claims. Who enjoys.
But Darius is looking at me like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, and that look—it does something to me. Something dangerous and delicious and utterly unfamiliar.
I plant my hands on his chest. His skin is cool beneath my palms, taut muscle shifting as he draws a sharp breath. I shift my weight.
He looks at me like a predator fascinated by prey that refuses to flee.
My auburn hair falls around us like a curtain, the loose waves tangled and wild. I must look like a mess—flushed, sweating, my lips swollen from his kisses and his bites. But the way he's looking at me, you'd think I was something holy. Something to worship.
I reach between us. I take his still-hard cock in my hands and guide it inside my very aroused opening and lower myself on him until we are fully connected.
He's still thick and hard, the silken skin over iron-hot need, and I can feel my own wetness coating him. The evidence of what we've already done. What we're about to do again.
"Is this what you wanted?" I ask, and my voice doesn't sound like mine. It's lower, rougher, threaded with something dark and confident that I've never heard from myself before.
"Yes. Show me," he says. That velvet baritone, roughened now, frayed at the edges. "Show me what you want, Bella."
Something releases inside my chest.
The fire pops. Outside, I can hear the distant sound of waves against the cliffs, the eternal rhythm of the ocean. But inside this room, inside this body, there's only him, only the impossible fullness, only the thunder of my own heartbeat.
I roll my hips and start to move, showing him exactly what I want.
The friction sends sparks shooting through my nerve endings. His cock drags against that spot inside me—the one that makes my vision blur and my breath catch—and I do it again. And again. Finding a rhythm that builds slowly, deliberately, like the tide coming in.
Darius's head falls back against the rug. His throat is exposed, pale and vulnerable, and I lean down to press my lips to the column of it.