Chapter Four
He is so much that I cannot make a sound at first.
He opens me by degrees, the stretch of it nearly painful. He is patient with me, achingly patient, the hand at the back of my neck gentled into a long stroke that runs up into my hair, down across my shoulder blades, and up again.
His other hand is on my hip. The grip is firm but careful. He pushes deeper and a shaken sound breaks out of me. One more push and he is fully inside me. I cry out softly, my forehead nearly pressed to the table.
He holds there, letting me adjust. Then he begins to move.
He moves slowly at first: long withdrawals that drag the whole length of him along the inside of me, long returns that drive him to the deepest part. Each stroke pulls a sound I cannot help. The head watches me come apart inch by inch, and I cannot look away.
His hand leaves my neck and slides to my breast, cupping it from behind, his hand warm against the underside, the thumb passing back and forth across my nipple in time with his thrusts. It builds, a warm tightening at the base of my belly, and I clench helplessly around him.
He notices. His pace shifts, the thrusts growing longer and harder, and the hand at my breast slides down across my belly to settle low. His fingers move, his hand splayed over my abdomen as if trying to feel himself moving inside me.
I come.
It rolls through me in a slow wave. I cry out against the wood, my legs nearly giving. The head’s eyes do not change; they hold me with the same unbroken attention as all night. The body at my back growls and goes still.
I am still shaking against the table as he withdraws. For a moment I am empty, the loss of him its own ache, but his hands turn me carefully; I find myself in his arms, legs around his hips, as he carries me across the kitchen toward my bed.
The bed is in the small inner room; he has to duck again to pass through the doorway. He sets me down, straightens, and stands looking at me. Then he turns and goes back to the kitchen.
I lie on my bed, naked, my body still humming, and listen to him move through my home. When he comes through the bedroom doorway, he is carrying his head. He crosses to the bed and sets the head near my feet.
His hands come down on my ankles, drawing me lightly toward him, then guiding me onto my knees. I look down when his hand snakes beneath me. The head faces toward the ceiling, his large hand cupping its jaw.
I look down at it. The eyes stare up at me, and the mouth opens. The tip of a tongue emerges, black and slick, and a sound gets caught in my throat.
The hand on my hip urges me downward. I go.
The tongue is hot and wet and capable, finding me with a sureness that suggests centuries of practice. I brace on my hands while the head on the pillow tastes me. The lips close against me; the tongue sweeps the length of my slit, unhurried and thorough, and draws a high broken sound out of me.
The body’s other hand sweeps up my spine and around to cup my breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and finger. The mouth below me works steadily, flicking its tongue and sucking at me, wet, filthy noises filling the room. A particularly hard draw tenses my thighs, and I come a second time.
I sob with it; my arms nearly give out. The mouth below me does not stop. The body behind me has begun a low, constant hum that I feel through the hand on my back, and as I come down, he shifts his weight. The heavy, hot length of him is back against my thigh, ready, waiting.
He finds my entrance and pushes in.
I cry out. My thighs are slick from my pleasure, and he slides home in a single stroke that makes me arch.
The mouth below me begins to suckle at my swollen flesh, and I almost scream. He takes me from behind while the head’s mouth works at me from below.
I am held between his two halves. The body behind me thrusts long and deep, one hand on my hip and one on my breast, his purr a constant rumble running into me through every point of contact.
The head below me has gone from sucking to flicking, and it is almost more than I can take.
I sob softly, pushing back into him with each thrust. My hair has fallen around my face, and when I look down, the black eyes are staring up at me.
My body convulses as another peak takes me.
Weakly, I try to move away. Half on instinct, half because I cannot bear any more.
I am so full I ache, yet my body begs for more.
I have made a mess of the bed, and fear it will only get worse.
As I struggle upright, the angle drives him somewhere particularly tender, and I moan brokenly.
The body behind me adjusts, an arm coming around my ribs to support me, and I reach down to lift his head.
I cradle it against my chest, and the mouth immediately finds my nipple.
The head’s mouth closes over the peak of my breast; the tongue laps once, then begins to suck. The black eyes, inches from mine, do not leave my face. I hold the head to me with both hands at the back of the skull, my fingers tangling in the dark hair.
Behind me, he growls low in approval, his hand coming around to my front to cup my other breast, thumb on the nipple, mirroring what the head’s mouth does. His thrusts grow harder.
I am held between them now—the head at my chest, the body at my back—crying without making any sound at all, the next climax building in me before the last has fully finished.
I bow over the head I am holding. The mouth at my breast does not stop. The body inside me thrusts harder, faster, the purr rising into a low rough growl, and I feel him losing the thread of his patience.
He drives into me, each stroke a deep grinding, and the mouth at my nipple sucks in answer, until the pleasure becomes a continuous thing. No peaks, no valleys, only a steady rising wave I cannot hold back any longer.
I come around him.
The clench is hard and long, and draws a snarl out of him that raises goosebumps on my skin.
He grinds deep and holds, his hand clamping tight on my hip, his other arm braced around my ribs, and I feel him swell inside me, the heat of him flooding up in a rush that goes on and on.
He does not pull out. He stays seated to the hilt.
The mouth at my breast finally stills, the lips releasing my nipple, the head’s eyes closing for the first time all night.
When he is done, he is shaking. I can feel it in the arm around me. The kind of tremor that ran through him in the kitchen when he first saw me naked.
His arm tightens. He bends to press the empty collar of his cloak to the back of my neck, and I feel the kiss-that-is-not-a-kiss again.
I hold the head against my chest. The black eyes open again and look up at me. I bring my mouth to his lips in a chaste kiss, and behind me the body shudders.