Chapter Twelve
Deogal
She is quieter when she sleeps.
I watch the rhythm that doesn’t stop just because her eyes are closed. The slow drag of breath in her chest; small, unconscious shifts that pull the sheets tighter around her body, the faint tension that never quite leaves her face, even now.
She’s laying on her stomach, duvet just above her hips. Her soft pink t-shirt rides up slightly, exposing milky flesh. It’s only a small glimpse but it’s enough to make me sweat.
My gaze drags over her without permission. The line of her throat where it disappears into shadow. The way her hair has fallen across her face, uneven. The slight part of her lips, shaping the air as it leaves her...
My hand lifts before I decide to move it. I hold it there, just above the back of her neck, close enough to feel the heat of her without touching. I nudge her hair aside until more of her skin is exposed. She’s softer than I expect. Hotter.
I keep my finger pressed to the nape of her neck, staying light at first. My touch trails slowly downward, following the line of her spine, learning where she gives. Each vertebra a point of entry.
She shifts faintly beneath me. Not waking. Just... responding.
I make it halfway before the soft sound leaves her. An exhale.
It settles into the space between us, brief but unmistakable.
My body stills with it.
I hold still long enough to measure the reaction. Another breath leaves her, quieter this time. The seconds pass until it’s impossible to remain still.
Slowly, deliberately, I continue down her spine. Each vertebra seems to touch me back this time. Hard. Small. Pressing into me with more intensity than I’m pressing into her.
“You’re so beautiful when you sleep,” I whisper. “Who could blame me for touching you?”
My fingers wander until I’m met by the edge of the duvet. I move it off her slowly, watching for any shift that might betray her waking. Inch by inch, I draw it down carefully, desperate to see all of her again.
She stirs. Just a faint pull through her shoulders, a deeper breath that lifts her chest before settling again.
I pause.
Wait.
She’s still asleep.
My gaze lingers, taking in what she hasn’t protected. No instinct to cover. No awareness of danger. She sleeps like someone who still trusts locked doors.
My breathing shudders.
I continue, slower now, letting the fabric slip from her in measured movements until it gathers loosely below her hips, revealing her soft, full ass. Skin like hers would betray every bruise. It would carry the evidence of my hands long after I was gone.
The cooler air brushes over the newly exposed skin. She shifts. I stare at her long, slender legs.
“Open for me,” I murmur. And her legs shift on command, bending at the knee. It changes the line of her completely.
She’s wearing knickers. The fabric is minimal, dark against her skin, stretched just enough to define rather than conceal. I stare. Hard.
My cock twitches.
I move closer because there is no version of this where I don’t.
The space between us dissolves. My hand follows, settling against her sex with a restraint that feels almost mocking in its gentleness.
Her body turns traitor beneath my hand, warmth rising, blooming beneath my calloused palm.
I curl my fingers slightly until the tips of them are brushing against her clit. I circle it, light, soft.
A test.
She responds—fuck, she responds—like something breaking loose beneath the surface. A sound slips from her, small and strained. Her toes curl. Her body tightens, anticipation without permission.
It’s increasingly difficult to keep my touch light. It’s jarring, unfamiliar.
I continue my experiment, scanning every reaction she’s forced to give me. Another sound. Sharper this time, fear threaded through it like she knows something has her.
She shifts again, too close to the surface.
I lift my other hand, slow, deliberate, until my fingers hover just shy of her skull. I slip inside the gap where she can’t hold herself together; unhook her from the room, from the bed, from the safety her body is trying to cling to. I drag her far away from here.
She feels it immediately.
Her breathing stutters. Her face slackens. And then she’s falling to somewhere colder. Somewhere stripped of shape and certainty, where waking up isn’t something she gets to decide.
My Realm takes her greedily.
I watch the moment her physical body stills completely now. Just... surrender. Total and quiet, and forced to let me do whatever I want to it.
I toss her lifeless body over so she’s laying on her back and move over her.
Her hair is wrong, I notice immediately.
It’s forced into a neat, suffocating bun she hides behind.
My hand rises and slips into her hair band.
I pull. Pins loosen. Strands slip free. And then it falls slowly.
A dark spill across the pillow, across her shoulders—softer than it has any right to be, untamed in a way she would never allow while she’s awake.
That’s easier to look at.
My thumb drags across her cheek hard enough to shift her face sideways against the pillow. I watch for resistance even unconscious.
Her lips part. Just enough.
A breath slips out.
I take in the rise and fall of her chest. The curve of her breasts shifts with each breath.
My thumb brushes just beneath, testing the weight, the warmth, before trailing around her dark areolas, revelling in the way her nipples pebble immediately.
They stand tall, proud, almost desperate to be touched next.
I obey. My fingers and thumb hover over her rosebuds.
I clamp down hard until I’m sure she’ll bruise for me.
Her body jolts. A broken sound slips from her throat. Soft and unwilling, but dangerously familiar.
I hold her there a second longer than I should, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my touch, the way her body tightens, fights, and then gives.
“So responsive,” I murmur.
Her muscles tighten beneath my touch, a sharp, involuntary reaction.
I drop to my knees, fingers locking around her hips, and then, I pull. I drag her toward me like she’s nothing more than a ragdoll to do what I please. My fingers hook into her knickers, removing them in one swift movement, and then I position her thighs on either side of my shoulders.
I drink in the sight of her exposed pussy, glistening with a faint sheen of moisture. She’s shaven, and that surprises me. I can’t imagine she shows it off to many people.
Control bleeds into everything she does. Even this is regulated.
A slow, satisfied tension pulls through me.
I press my finger against her. The heat of her hits me instantly. I collect it on the pads of my fingers, smearing it higher. Her body answers before she’s aware of it, the slick warmth gathering, betraying her in soft, glistening proof.
I keep my movements slow at first—agonisingly slow—dragging it out until it borders on cruelty. Until I know it’s too much. Until her body is straining for more.
I draw a curve into her.
And another.
Her thighs jerk, breath catching as the pattern repeats, faster now, more insistent, until it stops being random and the lines spell my name.
My other hand settles lower, pressing in. Her hole resists. Of course she does. She’s tight, not used to being taken like this.
That needs to change.
I force my way through. Her body fights it, rejects it, and the second I’m inside, she clamps down hard, her walls tightening around me like a reflex she can’t control.
A sound tears out of her. Louder now, panicked.
I continue tracing my name into her, again and again, deliberate enough that if she were awake—if she were aware—she might almost understand what I’m doing to her.
Marking her.
Her fingers twitch at her side, curling as if she might fight it, might push me away, but she’s too far under.
Too deep.
The rhythm builds, faster now, harder, until she has no choice but to follow it, her body chasing something it doesn’t understand. She gasps, a scream tearing free.
“You make such pretty sounds in your sleep.” I murmur, curling my fingers hard.
It pushes her over the edge. Her hips jerk. Her breath fractures.
And then she hits it.
Hard.
Her entire body seizes, tightening violently as the release crashes through her.
I don’t stop immediately. I let the aftermath roll through her, watching it take her apart in slow, shuddering waves. Her body doesn’t know what to do with it—tightening, releasing.
Good.
I want it to linger.
I ease my touch back gradually, making her feel the loss of it inch by inch. Her body reacts even to that in small, restless shifts, a faint, broken sound catching in her throat like she’s searching for something she can’t name.
I almost laugh.
Her body notices absence quickly.
I take a second just to look at the way she lies there now: controlled in every waking moment, reduced to this when she can’t defend herself. Breathing uneven. Skin flushed. Body softened in a way she would never allow if she had a choice.
And underneath it all, that trace. That pattern.
Mine.
I lean closer.
My hand drifts away fully now, leaving her with nothing but the echo of it.
I straighten slowly. Reluctantly. I want to stay, stretch her violently with my cock until she wakes up during it. It would be so easy. She’s so fucking helpless.
But not yet.
Not like this.
This...this is only the beginning.
She shifts again beneath me, softer this time, a faint, unconscious sound slipping past her lips.
I pause, listening carefully to the aftermath.
I’ll be back tomorrow. And next time, I won’t stop here.