66. Henri
Chapter 66
Henri
I’ve never been this fucking horny and this fucking frustrated. Sure I’ve been frustrated with he who shall be forgotten because sex was always on his timetable. It was never to be initiated by me. I was expected to be ready for his whims, no matter how I felt or what I wanted or didn’t want. That’s a hard lesson to override.
I can’t wake up Deacon. I don’t. There’s a chance he won’t reject me. No, I know he won’t reject me. My logical brain knows that the minute I wake him up, he’ll give me everything. The horny part of my brain begs me to. But the irrational fear, the part that’s so afraid of rejection, has me grabbing a pillow from the bed and a towel from the bathroom, taking it to the far side of the house.
The sitting room is fairly private, designed for TV viewing with smaller windows. Throwing the pillow down on the floor, I drape the towel over the top.
This has been the only way I’ve gotten off by myself in the last four years. Today has been a clear deviation of my norm. Toys were shunned and it was dirty for me to touch myself. Especially after I told him about my first heat.
This was the only thing that I felt like I could do. Here I am, doing it again, to avoid waking Deacon up. Shame is funny that way.
The pillow is a little small and the towel is a little softer than the ones I used at home. There’s not enough friction.
I groan and squeeze the pillow tighter with my knees. It hits better, and I grind, a little frustrated but finding some relief.
“Am I doing so poorly taking care of you that you’d rather ride a pillow than me?” Deacon mocks offense but embarrassment flames my cheeks.
He steps closer, pajama pants slung low around his waist.
“I just—” My pussy clenches, cutting off my words.
“Ask me to help, Henri.”
His command isn’t a command, not really. It’s posed as a question, and his words drip with arousal and sex appeal.
“Deacon, help me.”
He comes and kneels behind me, his knees spreading my calves and thighs. “Can I touch you?”
“Mm-hmm,” I answer, willing my body to relax, but it doesn’t.
I expected Deacon to go straight for my sex, but instead he massages small circles down my spine with his thumbs, and I almost buckle from how good the physical touch feels. It puts me physically at ease. But I’m still mentally unsure.
“Do you like getting off this way?”
His words aren’t meant to shame me, but I immediately feel that way. “Mmm.”
“You don’t.” Deacon seems to read my monosyllabic response. “Can I help, Hen?”
Deacon’s always been about embracing what feels good: the adrenaline of his bike, the emotional high of the nightclub, and of course the buzz that keeps him feeling normal.
Why shouldn’t I let him help?
Let him help , my wolf urges.
I answer Deacon with a nod.
“Use those words, Henri,” Deacon urges me, continuing to respectfully rub my back.
“Please.” My wolf pushes forward, and my word hits a high-pitch, needy sound.
A pleased groan comes from Deacon, and he slides his hand around my waist.
Anticipating his needs, I raise my ass to him.
“Let’s take this back for you. We’ll remove the shame and replace all the bad memories with something better.”
I expected him to touch me, ease the painful arousal that’s been growing, and then fuck me hard until he comes. But Deacon doesn’t. He stands up, leaving me on the floor. It feels like the rejection I was expecting.
But I said please.
Stepping around me, he pulls me up from the floor to my feet. “You’re too perfect to be fucked into the floor.”
Deacon picks up the pilfered pillow and towel and takes them over to the sofa. It’s pressed back against the windows on the far wall. Deacon bypasses the couch cushions and places the pillow on the arm with the towel on top of it.
With ease, he pulls the side table out of the way, creating room. Standing behind me, Deacon points out the window toward the neighbor’s house. It’s quite a ways away, and it’s dark inside.
“I can’t tell if their blinds are open or not,” he whispers in my ear like they’d be able to hear us watching them. “But if we turn the lamp on—”
“Yes.” I cut him off, knowing exactly what he’s suggesting .
Despite not being able to anticipate his motivations and movements, I understand this. Deacon has fully embraced my kink to risk being seen.
“So. Fucking. Dirty. Henri.” Spoken from anyone else, Deacon’s words would feel condescending, but the praise, with a deep rumble in his voice, elevates my emotions from negative to positive.
He clicks on the lamp behind us. The light illuminates the room and makes seeing outside into the night difficult.
Done talking, Deacon helps me straddle the couch arm. The pillow is in the perfect position to support me, and with a little bit of maneuvering, Deacon’s exposed me to him.
The way he drags his fingers along my sides, down around my thighs, then back up my ass is excruciatingly erotic.
His sleep pants land on the floor with a soft thud followed by a shuffle as he kicks out of them.
“Please, fuck me.” The words come out of my mouth with a little growl before he can ask me what I want him to do to me.
“Impatient, hmm?” Deacon slides his fingers into the wetness I created by grinding on the pillow, and it electrifies my body with a hum of need. “Can I use my fingers to fuck you, Henri?”
“Deacon,” I gasp, trying to stop myself from begging. “Please.”
He slowly inserts two fingers into my warmth, fucking me with them.
I moan and arch into him. The furious need that was staved off when he found me and soothed me is fast returning with a vengeance.
“Do you want my cock, Henri?” He keeps moving his fingers, curling them and hitting the right spots over and over again.
I rock back, trying to get him closer. “Yes. ”
Deacon pulls me back on the arm to be closer to him and slides his cock along my entrance. “So wet. So fucking wet.”
In one fluid movement, he sinks his cock into me. I moan so loud it’s pornographic. I should be embarrassed by the sounds coming out of my mouth, but I’m not. I’m not because Deacon responds with his own moans and slow thrusts, dragging more sounds out of me. My position, facing the couch, isn’t quite allowing me to grind my clit against the sofa’s arm, but the fullness eases the cramping and the stiff desire.
Deacon, however, must notice that something isn’t perfect because he bends over the top of me. “Tell me what you need, Hen. This is all about you. You’re taking the power back.”
“Not enough friction,” I whimper, trying to push back into him.
He hasn’t stopped, but the slow, careful pace while he listens to me is agonizingly sweet.
“Deacon, I need . . .”
When Deacon pulls out, I protest with a snarl, and he laughs. “Easy, killer.”
He slides his arm underneath my stomach, bringing it upward to my chest, and with it, he helps me adjust so I can better support my weight with my hands. I reach out before me but note the window and stop.
Deacon nibbles the back of my neck and whispers into my ear. “Don’t worry about smudging the glass.”
I put my hands out flat and brace myself as he implied, but I do feel a little bad about touching the window with my hot sweaty palms. Not bad enough because when Deacon slides his hand down my stomach and slips two fingers underneath me, the pressure on my clit makes the guilt disappear. It makes all the thoughts disappear.
He tilts my pelvis just a little more forward, and I gasp, the shooting pleasure unexpectedly delicious .
There must be just enough room for Deacon to slip inside me. The way he fills me is a new stretch, the sensation already driving pleasure.
Mate fucks us perfectly. My wolf speaks like I don’t already know the physical pleasures.
“Deacon,” I caution him. “So close.”
He nips at my ear and his fingers stroke my clit. “Tell me to stop if it gets to be too much. Tell me to stop when you don’t think you can take anymore, but focus on how you feel. Focus on how good it is and chase that pleasure as far as it takes you.”
I can’t speak because I don’t remember what words are. The lightheaded feeling has me weak already. Deacon supports my weight with his free arm, hand cupping my breast and gently squeezing. Between the pace of his thrusts and grinding against his fingers while he takes me, it’s bliss.
My head drops forward involuntarily. I’m floating somewhere along the path to an orgasm, and I arrive faster than I planned. The pressure builds in a single hard thrust, and I press my fingers into the glass.
His name comes out at the top of my lungs. “Deacon!”
“Fuck,” he hisses but keeps fucking me.
Is he holding back?
It’s a fleeting thought because Deacon fucks me in tandem with working his fingers. He plays with a nipple and kisses my shoulder.
My orgasm fades, and I wait for the clarity; I wait to come down from the peak. But it doesn’t come. Rather it builds again. This time faster and stronger.
Panting, my lungs can’t keep up with the call for oxygen my brain is putting out.
I’m gasping, struggling for breath between moans, making my voice hoarse, and I come again. His name doesn’t make it past my lips because in this orgasm, I lose all strength, but Deacon doesn’t let me fall. In my bliss, I feel safe and protected.
“Come. Please,” I gasp, wanting and needing to feel him come undone.
My beg is enough.
“Henri. Fuck.” The way he curses my name when he does fills me with pride.
I’ve given him this just as much as he’s sated me. Two orgasms sound excessive, but I’m driven to feel his touch. It’s a primal instinct anchoring me to his desire.
Deacon withdraws from me, and I want to cry at the absence. I do let out a pathetic little mewl.
“Trust, Hen, I don’t want to either. You’re so warm and inviting. I want to live inside you just as much as you want me there, probably even more.” Deacon kisses across my shoulders as he sits me up, starting from one side and not stopping until he reaches the other.
With delicate touches, Deacon pulls me off the sofa and turns me to face him, quickly pulling me into his arms. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he lifts me, cupping my ass. With my legs around his waist, he carries me through the house to the bedroom.
Deacon cleans me like he did before and climbs into bed alongside me. “Don’t hesitate to wake me up, Hen. You’re not alone in this. I’ll never turn you away.”
He kisses the back of my neck and down my shoulder before wrapping himself around me like he has each time we’ve come to bed.
Deacon is the perfect big spoon, and the feeling of being safe in his arms is one I’m never going to forget.