7. Lena #2
He carries me to the bed and lays me down in the center. The sheets are cool and crisp. He stands at the foot of the bed, just looking, his gaze a physical touch. Then he drops to his knees, pushes my thighs apart, and lowers his mouth to me.
I cry out.
His tongue is flat and broad, licking a slow, torturous stripe from my entrance to my clit.
He fucks me with his tongue, then sucks and licks my clit into the heat of his mouth, his hands holding my hips down when I arch off the bed.
He is relentless, expert, reading every twitch and gasp.
He inserts two fingers back inside me, crooking them, and sucks my clit hard.
I come again, sobbing his name, my body convulsing under his mouth. He doesn’t stop until the last tremor subsides, until I’m a wrung-out, trembling mess on the sheets.
He crawls up my body, his cock dragging a wet trail over my stomach. He positions himself between my legs, the broad head of his dick nudging at my entrance. He looks down at me, his eyes searching mine.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, a statement, a warning.
“Yes,” I hiss. “Fuck me. Now. Please.”
He drives into me in one long, brutal stroke.
I scream. The stretch is immense, a burning fullness that steals the air from my lungs. He is so big, filling me completely, reaching places I didn’t know existed. He goes still, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Jesus,” he grits out. “You feel…impossible.”
Then he moves. There is no gentleness, no slow build.
This is what we both need—the collision, the punishment, the frantic, desperate joining.
He pounds into me, his hips slapping against mine, the bed rocking with the force of his thrusts.
I wrap my legs high around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, my nails scoring down his back.
The sounds we make are animalistic, grunts and cries and the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
“You take my cock so fucking good,” he snarls, his voice thick with lust. “Your greedy, wet pussy was made for me to fuck.”
His words are filthy, and they send another bolt of pure heat through me. He shifts my leg, hooks it over his arm, opening me wider, and the angle changes. The next thrust hits a spot inside me that makes my vision flash white.
“Yes!” I shriek. “Right there, fuck, don’t stop! Please. Please. Please.”
He hammers that spot, over and over, a ruthless, perfect rhythm.
The coil inside me winds impossibly tight.
I can feel my own slickness coating us both, hear the lewd, squelching sounds of his dick pistoning in and out of my soaked cunt.
I’m chanting his name, my eyes rolling behind uncontrollably, as the pressure breaks.
My third orgasm is a seizure, a raw, screaming thing that locks my body around his.
I milk his cock in frantic pulses, and with a roar that seems ripped from his soul he follows me.
I feel the hot, sudden rush of his cum flooding my depths, jet after jet, as he pumps into me through his climax, his body shuddering violently atop mine.
He falls on me, a tangled, sweating, breathing mess. He doesn’t pull out. He stays inside me, softening, his weight a welcome anchor.
We don’t speak. The only sounds are our ragged breaths slowly calming.
After a while, he rolls us, pulling me on top of him.
He’s hard again, already. I sink down onto him slowly, this time controlling the pace.
It’s different. Deeper. Softer. His hands rest on my hips, guiding me gently.
I ride him, my palms flat on his chest, watching his face.
His eyes are open, watching me back, and the raw, unguarded look in them undoes me completely.
The tears start before I can stop them.
He sees them. His hand comes up immediately to my face, thumb brushing under my eye, and he says nothing, just holds my face and keeps looking at me and moves with me, slow and steady.
I cry and he doesn’t flinch from it and doesn’t look away and somehow that is worse and better than anything else he’s done tonight.
I fold down against his chest and he wraps around me and we stay like that until the crying passes and the movement slows and everything finally, finally goes quiet.
We both orgasm again and I finally slump forward onto his chest, spent in every way possible. He wraps his arms around me, and we stay like that until his cock slips from my body.
I sleep before I mean to.
The dark is total and deep and dreamless and I don’t fight it.
When I surface it’s still dark but different, the particular quality of dark that means dawn is somewhere close but not here yet, and I’m awake instantly, completely, the way I’ve been waking since Moscow, every nerve already running before my eyes are open.
He’s asleep. On his back, one arm out, breathing even and slow. In the dark he looks younger than he does when he’s awake, and I look at him for a long moment. Something moves through my chest that I refuse to name.
I slide off the bed without sound.
I find my clothes on the bathroom floor. I find the knife on the bedside table, the one he used to cut my ties, and I pick it up and I carry it to where he’s sleeping and I stand over him.
His chest rises and falls. Rises and falls.
Do it. My hand tightens on the handle. He killed Papa. He killed Papa and you are standing here and you have the knife and this is the only chance you will ever have so do it. Do it now.
I stand there.
I stand there for a very long time.
The knife comes down to my side.
I can’t. The knowledge sits in my gut like something swallowed wrong. I can’t do it and I hate myself for it and I can’t.
I put the knife down on the nightstand. Quiet as I can. I find the drive on the dresser where he must have put it down and I pocket it, and my phone beside it, and I don’t look at him again because if I look at him again I won’t leave.
I find the door.
I don’t look back.