Chapter 37 Eliana #2
He switches to my right breast, adding another dollop of cream before his tongue follows the same torturous path. Licking, sucking, biting, over and over until I’m nothing but nerve endings and need. I know without looking that my berry panties are thoroughly soaked through.
Bastian pulls back, leaving my breasts wet and aching, shining with saliva and melted cream. I whimper at the loss of his mouth as the cold rushes in again.
But he doesn’t make me wait long. He reaches behind me again, suffusing my nose with his wintergreen scent as he leans close. This time, he produces a small jar of honey.
It’s a rich amber in the kitchen lighting. He tips the jar and drizzles a thin, golden line down my sternum. The honey is warm and it pools between my breasts before trickling down over the swell of my belly. My belly that’s round with our child, even here, even in this fantasy.
“Honey for my honey,” he murmurs with an amused chuckle as we both watch it drip downward toward the waistband of my skirt.
“I’ve been thinking about this for months, you know.
All those late nights in the office, watching you frown and chew on your pen…
I kept imagining what you’d look like spread out on my countertop, sticky and sweet and mine. ”
“Bastian—” I start.
But he cuts me off with a finger pressed to my lips. “Hush. I’m working.”
He puts a fingertip to the smear of honey and drags it around in slow fingers spread the honey across my skin in slow circles. Everywhere it goes, it leaves behind a glimmering gold path.
“You’re a fucking masterpiece,” he mutters, almost to himself.
Then he reaches for a bowl of sliced peaches, summer-ripe and dripping with juice, and begins arranging them on my body. Two crescents frame my navel. Another rests in the dip of my hip.
A sprinkle of cinnamon across my collarbone.
A dollop of crème fra?che in the hollow of my throat.
When he’s satisfied with his work, he steps back to admire it. I don’t dare move.
“Now,” he says, pushing up his sleeves higher, “I’m going to eat.”
He starts at my throat. His tongue teases down the line of crème fra?che. His teeth scrape gently against my pulse point, and I feel my heartbeat thundering against his lips like it’s trying to crawl into his mouth.
He works his way down methodically, tasting every inch he’s decorated. The cinnamon on my collarbone makes him groan. The honey on my sternum makes me gasp. When he reaches the peaches on my belly, he collects each slice between his teeth and chews slowly while maintaining eye contact.
I’m an absolute puddled mess. Every bite he takes sends ripples outward from the point of contact, like I’m a pond and he’s chucking stones in the heart of me.
The sensations don’t even make sense—his mouth is on my stomach but I feel it in my fingertips, in the arches of my feet, behind my eyes.
My nerve endings don’t connect to the right places anymore.
I want to touch him but my body won’t obey. I’m sealed to the counter somehow. I couldn’t move if I tried.
And even if I did, Bastian wouldn’t let me. His hands are planted on my thighs to hold me still. I’m not going anywhere soon.
He takes his time. God, does he take his time. When he reaches my navel, he circles it with his tongue, dipping inside, and the sensation is so unexpectedly erotic that I cry out. He looks up at me from between my legs, his mouth shining with honey, his eyes gone dark with want.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he croons. “You won’t make it to the end if you’re this wrecked already.”
As he talks, his hands slide up under my skirt. His rough fingers hook into my berry-print underwear and drag it down my legs. He leaves it dangling from one of my ankles, like he’s fond of this pair and doesn’t want to let them go quite yet.
Then he lowers himself to his knees in front of me.
I’m completely bare to him, to the kitchen, to the cold countertop on my ass. I’m sweet and sticky to the touch like a half-eaten meal, but Bastian licks his lips and a fresh surge of heat tears through me.
Apparently, though, I’m not yet sweet enough for his liking, because he plucks one more thing off the counter: a small bowl of melted chocolate, dark and glossy, still warm.
Like with the cream, he dips two fingers in the liquid. This time, he drags it tenderly over my inner thigh. I gasp and squirm against the counter as my skin sizzles and my center begs to be filled because it’s empty, desperate, needy.
He leans in to lick it all off.
The contrast of his tongue against the warm chocolate whites out my vision completely. I see nothing but static and starbursts as he works his way up my thighs slowly, savoring every drop like I’m the most decadent thing he’s ever tasted. I’m trembling so hard the counter trembles beneath me.
When his mouth hovers right over my center, I can feel his breath plume over me, and I think I might actually die.
Then he kills me.
There’s no easy build-up, no leaning into it, and why would there need to be? He’s been teasing me for what feels like hours now and one touch is almost enough to destroy me all on its own. Bastian’s lips seal around my clit and suck, a hard blaze of sensation, and just like that, I’m gone.
His tongue is everywhere at once—circling my clit, dipping inside me, lapping up the mixture of chocolate and my own wetness. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading me open for him and refusing to let me beg for a moment of mercy.
“Take it,” he growls against me when I try closing them anyway because it’s all too much. “Take everything I’m giving you.”
One of his hands releases my thigh to slide up my body, finding my breast and pinching my nipple hard enough to make me yelp.
The pleasure-pain combination is too much.
I’m climbing higher and higher, my whole body tensing, my hands scrambling for purchase on the slick counter and finding nothing to hold onto except the cold steel edge.
Bastian adds his fingers. Two of them push inside me while his mouth focuses on my clit, curling and stroking in a rhythm that matches the relentless pressure of his tongue.
I’m so close. So fucking close. My thighs are shaking. My spine is arching off the counter. Everything is tightening, coiling, building toward—
This.
It all converges at once: Bastian’s fingers curling inside me to hit the perfect spot, his tongue swishing against my clit, his other hand twisting my nipple, and the absolutely filthy sounds he’s making as he works me over.
“Come for me,” he commands. “Come on my tongue, let me taste it, give me everything.”
I can hear myself making insane sounds. High, desperate, keening noises that I’ve never made before. Bastian doesn’t stop, just keeps working me through it until I’m oversensitive and shaking and begging him to stop, please, it’s too much, I can’t take anymore…
But he doesn’t listen. This is Bastian Hale, and Bastian Hale doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every last drop of pleasure from my body like I’m a dishrag and he’s determined to leave me bone-dry.
“One more,” he growls against my trembling center as I flop around and whimper wordless pleas for him to please let me breathe. “You’re almost done, darling. But first, you’re going to give me one more.”
Bastian rises to his feet and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. That cocky smirk is shiny with chocolate, cream, honey, and me.
His fingers work at his belt and pull it free. “You’re going to take everything I give you, understand?”
Impossible, I want to say. There’s nothing left in me.
But my center says otherwise. She’s absolutely frothing to be filled and made whole again. With rough hands, Bastian drags me to the edge of the counter, my ass sliding across the remnants of honey and chocolate, and positions himself between my thighs.
He’s still in his boxer briefs, but I can feel him, hard, huge, and ready, pressing against my entrance. The anticipation alone is almost enough to make me come again.
I hear the rasping of fabric as he steps out of his boxers, but my eyes are rolling back in their sockets, so all I see is the ceiling. Between my legs, I feel that first blunt sensation of his cock, the terrifying promise of how huge it is.
“I can’t—” I say. “I can’t, I can’t—”
But that just pisses him off. Snarling in anger, Bastian loops a hand around the back of my head and forces me up, until our foreheads touch and I’m staring right into the bluest, blackest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Listen to me,” he says as his thumb passes lazily, almost insolently over my clit and the head of his dick teases my folds without entering.
“You can. You can and you fucking will. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met, Eliana Hunter—and yes, you’re going to break for me, but you’re going to do it because you can.
So I want you to look in my eyes. Look in my eyes and do not ever look away.
I’m going to fuck you and I’m going to ruin you, and you’re going to watch me the whole fucking time—and in the end, you’ll know that there is nothing in the world you cannot do.
Because you were made for this. For me. Do you understand, Eliana? ”
It’s not a rhetorical question. He’s waiting for an answer with an unwatchable intensity. It’s like staring straight into the sun from up close and personal, except this sun has cruel, brutal fingers wound through the roots of your hair and looking away is not an option.
So, as Bastian’s thickness starts to push into my wetness and he has me folded in half on his kitchen counter, sticky with sweet residue, limp and boneless from coming already, legs locked around his waist, hands clinging to his biceps, with strawberry and wintergreen on my tongue and chocolate and cream and honey in my nose and drooling insanity billowing through every inch of my veins, I keep my eyes on his and I give him the only answer I can, the only answer possible, the only one he’d ever accept:
“Yes, Chef.”
Then he breaks me.
I wake myself up with a moan.
My whole body is trembling. There’s a fine sheen of sweat coating every inch of my skin, my underwear is soaked, and my heart is galloping in my chest. For a disorienting moment, I’m still there: among the gleaming countertops, the bowls of fruit, with Bastian’s cock poised at my—
Then the test kitchen dissolves into nothing but darkness. My blindness crashes back in. The real world follows close behind.
I’m in Bastian’s bed. In the middle of the night.
And my hand is—
Oh, God.
My hand is between my legs, nestled beneath the damp cotton of my underwear, as my body still pulses with the unmistakable aftershocks of a very real orgasm.
Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod.
Did I really just—did I just have a sex dream about Bastian? While sleeping in his actual bed? With him right next to me?!
The poor, overworked circuit boards of my brain are still shorting out when something else happens, the only thing that could make this worse.
I hear motion beside me. Stirring. Then a wry, teasing voice:
“Good dream?” Bastian asks.