Chapter 27 LILY
LILY
Erion leads me by the belt still looped around my neck, the leather a gentle pressure against my skin, not tight enough to restrict but present enough that I feel it with every step.
I should feel trapped. Controlled. Diminished.
But I don't.
I've never felt so free in my entire life.
When Erion takes control, something in me releases. I don't have to think. Don't have to worry or plan or anticipate every possible outcome and prepare for disaster. I can just feel. Just be. Just exist in this moment without the weight of responsibility crushing down on my shoulders.
My mind goes quiet in a way it never does. The constant spiral of anxiety and overthinking, the voice that tells me I need to fix things and manage situations and make sure everyone else is okay, stops completely.
I just trust.
Trust him to know what I need. Trust him to pay attention. Trust him to care whether I'm okay.
The freedom in that is staggering.
We reach his bedroom. He pulls me close by the belt, the leather sliding through his fingers until there's barely any distance between us. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, intense in a way that makes my pulse kick up.
"Take my clothes off," he says. A command, not a request. No question in his voice.
I do.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for his shirt, fingers fumbling with buttons that suddenly feel too small, too complicated.
I work it free slowly, exposing his chest inch by inch.
The tattoos that cover his skin are revealed in pieces.
Dark lines and shapes, some beautiful and intricate, some brutal and sharp-edged.
Scars underneath, pale against his tanned skin.
Stories written in violence and survival.
I trace one with my fingertip, a raised line that cuts across his ribs.
He watches me. Doesn't stop me.
I push his jeans down his hips. His underwear follows. Everything stripped away until he's completely naked in front of me.
His cock is hard, jutting out from his body. Big. Thick. The head flushed dark and glistening with pre-cum that catches the light.
A moan escapes me before I can stop it, raw and wanting.
"You want a taste?" His voice is rough, scraped raw. "You going to be a good dirty girl and take my cock in that pretty mouth?"
Heat floods through me, settling low and insistent between my thighs.
I breathe out one word. "Yes."
He pulls on the belt gently, the pressure against my throat guiding me down. My knees hit the floor, the hardwood cool against my skin.
"Take me," he says.
I do my best. I don't have much experience with this, haven't done it more than a handful of times and never with someone like him, someone so confident and demanding and present. But I try.
I wrap my lips around him. Take him in. He's big, fills my mouth completely, the weight of him heavy on my tongue. The taste is salt and musk and something uniquely him.
Erion drops his end of the belt, letting it fall across my shoulder. "Put your hands on my thighs."
I do, my palms flat against hard muscle, feeling the tension coiled there.
He takes a step forward, standing right above me now. Our height difference means he towers over me, means I have to tilt my head back to see his face.
His hands go to my hair, fingers threading through the strands, grip tight enough to sting slightly. "Breathe through your nose, dashuri."
He presses in. Deeper. Slow and controlled. Until I feel him hit the back of my throat.
My gag reflex triggers immediately. I choke slightly, eyes watering, body trying to reject the intrusion.
But he holds there for another beat, giving me time to adjust, to breathe, to accept.
When he pulls back, there's a string of saliva connecting my mouth to his cock, glistening in the low light.
"Good girl," he says, and his voice is strained, control fraying at the edges. "You okay?"
Instead of answering with words, I pull him back to me, opening my mouth and taking him deep again. Showing him rather than telling him.
He groans, the sound rough and broken. "Fuck. I can feel your spit all over my balls."
He starts to move, fucking my face with controlled thrusts. Not rough enough to hurt but firm enough that I know who's in charge. The rhythm is steady, deliberate.
His hand leaves my hair, finds my breast. Pinches my nipple hard between his fingers.
I moan around him, the sound muffled but unmistakable.
He pulls out suddenly, his cock slipping from my mouth with a wet sound. "I don't want to come in your mouth yet. Not done with you."
He takes me to the bed, his hands firm on my waist, lifting me easily. Positions me on all fours, my hands and knees sinking into the soft mattress.
He crosses my wrists behind my back, the position making my shoulders stretch, my spine arch. Loops the belt around them, securing them together.
I'm pinned again. Helpless. At his mercy.
And I've never felt safer.
Then he's behind me, his body heat radiating against my back. His cock presses in, the stretch familiar now but still intense, still overwhelming.
He uses the belt as leverage, pulling my arms back as he thrusts, the position forcing me to take him deeper.
I feel something wet on my other hole. His spit, warm and slick.
Then his finger pressing there, breaching slowly, carefully.
The sensation is foreign and intense and somehow perfect.
I come. Hard. Unexpectedly. My body clenching around him, pleasure ripping through me so suddenly I don't have time to prepare for it.
"Dirty girl," he says, his voice rough with approval and satisfaction. "You like having all your holes played with, don't you?"
"Yes!" I scream, past caring how loud I am, past caring about anything except this feeling. "Yes!"
He comes then, his body going tense behind me, his grip on the belt tightening as his rhythm falters and breaks.
We collapse on the bed together, both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and spent.
After a while, when our breathing has evened out and the world has stopped spinning, Erion moves. "Stay here."
He goes to the bathroom. I hear water running. He comes back with a warm damp towel, the heat of it a shock against my sensitive skin.
He cleans me gently, with a care that contradicts everything that came before. Takes his time. Makes sure I'm comfortable. Then he massages my wrists where the belt was, his strong fingers working out any soreness, checking for marks.
"You okay?" he asks again, his voice softer now. Vulnerable in a way I haven't heard before.
"Yes," I say. Mean it completely. "I'm more than okay."
He holds me for a while after that, his arms solid and warm around me. Kisses my forehead with a tenderness that makes my chest tight. "I'll be right back."
He leaves the room. Returns a couple minutes later carrying something.
A slice of the chocolate cake we bought this afternoon in Zurich. The one with the dark chocolate ganache and the delicate layers.
"That's for Artan and Luan when they get back," I protest weakly.
He tsks, a sound of mock disapproval. "There's plenty. They won't miss one slice."
He looks around the room, like he's considering something. Weighing options.
Then, like he's just had the brightest idea, he takes the cake off the plate. Places it directly on my belly, the cool ceramic gone, just chocolate and cream against my skin.
"Next to eating you," he says, his eyes meeting mine with mischief and heat, "the best thing is eating from you."
I laugh. Can't help it. The absurdity and intimacy of it hitting me at the same time.
He lies beside me, propped up on one elbow. Takes the fork. Gives me a small bite, chocolate rich and sweet on my tongue. Then takes one himself, his eyes never leaving mine.
We eat like that. Taking turns. Quiet. The silence comfortable and easy in a way I didn't expect.
My eyes land on the medal hanging from his necklace, catching the light. Silver and worn, the engraving faded with age and touch.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
He touches it automatically, his fingers closing around the metal like he's done it a thousand times before. "Saint George. Shen Gjergji in Albanian. My grandmother gave it to me when I was young. She was the only person who really cared about me."
He pauses, and I see something shift in his expression. Something that looks like grief.
Then he continues, his voice quieter now. "She said he's a warrior-saint. That he fights monsters instead of avoiding them. That he'd look after me because I'd have to fight a lot of monsters in my life."
His thumb rubs across the surface of the medal, the motion automatic and soothing.
"She was right," he adds, and the sadness in his voice makes my heart ache.
I don't push for more. Don't ask questions. Just let the moment sit between us, heavy with things unsaid.
We finish the cake in silence. Erion licks the remaining crumbs and ganache from my belly, his tongue warm and soft against my skin, making me shiver.
"Now I'm ready for dessert," he says, his voice dropping lower, becoming rough again with renewed desire.
He spreads my legs gently, settles between them. His hands are warm on my thighs, holding me open.
His eyes meet mine. Dark. Hungry. Full of promise and intent.
Then he lowers his head.