5. Sawyer #2
“I’m sorry, love,” I say, grabbing her by her hips and dragging her to the middle of the bed.
“No, stop. Please stop.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” I say as I pin her back to the mattress with my knee while forcing her hands above her head.
One hand slips from my grasp. Her nails find my face, the sharp dagger of her middle finger slashing my cheekbone, the loose skin beneath my eye pulling.
The sting comes before hot blood bubbles to the surface, and I jerk my head away while swallowing a curse.
I shift to straddle her chest and catch her wrist while she kicks, bucks, jerks her arms, trying desperately to free herself from my grasp. If she had been holding back her fighting spirit, it’s just broken free.
“You’re okay, Luna,” I repeat while blindly fumbling for the handcuffs. I don’t take my eyes off her hands, weapons I have secured in a bruising grip but still don’t trust. When I find the cuffs, I quickly secure both her wrists to the headboard.
I do my best to take on a look of pity, of regret, of total remorse, but I don’t know that I manage.
She alerts the whole damn building with a blood-curdling scream—fucking disastrous. I was ordered to keep her quiet, but if I cover her mouth too soon, my first impression is shot.
“Shut her up!” Thorne demands, thank fuck.
I cover her mouth and gently shush her while she sobs into my palm, her eyes wide and pleading—for the moment. It’s an insincere white flag; a lie; sharp instincts shifting strategy now that the battle has been lost.
Three weeks is so little time to tame a fighter.
“You’re gonna be fine, love,” I say, the urge to kiss her forehead strong. But I refrain. It’s too much me. Not enough my character.
Her cries and begging into my palm shorten, her breaths gradually slowing. When she finally quiets, I count to ten. Then, slowly, carefully, I retreat, waiting to slap my hand back as soon as she screams.
She snaps her head away and rattles the handcuffs, but her fight is dim. She’s making the familiar shift from panic to sorrow. Defeat—yet to make me feel victorious. In a week, the sorrow will lift, and we’ll both feel better.
I move down her body once again and don’t bother with the peppered kisses, the formality no longer seeming appropriate.
I peel her jeans off before tucking both hands beneath her lacy, black panties.
Her ass digs into the mattress in an attempt to stop me from pulling them off, but with a few jerks, they slip down her thighs—two more and they’re free of her ankles.
Luna gasps as I spread her open with a firm touch. She uselessly tries to clench her legs, swings her foot at my arms as if I’ve forgotten her strength; as if I’d make that mistake again.
Little whines slip past her lips, but they’re at least quieter than her screams. I’m too distracted to pretend to care about the noise. In fact, I’m glad she’s facing away because the pity slips right off my face.
For seconds, I just stare at the white patch of hair surrounding the pink of her pussy, snowy curls ornamenting ribbed, tender flesh. White hair. Like she’s a thousand years old. It’s strange. Sexy. Wrong.
My mind stumbles, trips—ridiculous because pussy is pussy, but… I don’t know. For several moments, I’m caught off guard.
My cock jumps and mercifully knocks me back into orbit. Saliva coats the lining of my mouth because once again, I’m Pavlov’s dog.
Turning my head, I cough into my shoulder to clear the lust from my throat. I breathe deeper, air warming as it passes over my heated lips. Then dip my head to kiss the girl’s clit.
She gasps, then squirms, then cries.
If we met in a dim corner of a bar, I’d have bought her a drink, happily listened to her prattle on about her life, learned her likes, dislikes, her friends, her family, her dog—before finally whisking her up to a hotel room where I’d plant my lips in this exact spot.
She’d have sung me praises (or not, I could be too old).
Kindest thing you can do for a woman? Give her an orgasm.
Cruelest thing you can do to a woman? Give her an orgasm.
I’ve spent the last decade trying to make that make sense.
My thumb smoothes pink flesh as I spread her open, her pussy grasping at air. I insert my tongue and let it clench before licking all the way up her slit, giving a flick to her hood that makes her thigh twitch.
She tastes like she smells—soft vanilla edged with earth, a warm, natural musk that feels more honest than anything bottled.
Raw. Unmasked. Perfect. Too perfect. My chest begins to buzz with excitement I won’t be able to contain, cock getting too hard too fast. For once, I wish I didn’t get off on going down.
Sliding my tongue back into her hole, I hold my breath; think of something vulgar. Vinegar, swallowed by the spoonful every time I cursed at grandma’s house. The smell of moth balls matted to her baby pink sweaters.
My mind stays there, even as my lips work the girl’s labia—tongue flattening each fold, exploring, dwelling, absent.
I see a kitchen with flowered wallpaper, hear a yellowed fridge humming, grimace as I swallow clear, putrid liquid, wrinkled hand plastered over my mouth.
For a minute, this works. But as Luna’s thighs squeeze, I’m yanked back to the present.
My breath breaks. Air floods in, and with it—her. Her smell. Her taste. The smooth feel of her thighs against my ears.
It’s nice. Dizzying. Dangerous.
There’s no way she’s going to believe I’m not loving every moment of this.
I close my eyes while flattening my tongue on her hole, fingers digging craters in her thighs as I grip, push, hold. Her little gasp—pleasured, surprised—is all the encouragement I need to drag my bottom lip up to her clit and let the taste of vinegar dissolve.
My lips fit around the swollen little bundle before I suck, then kiss; lick; suck. All the while waiting for her leg muscles to release, body drifting even as her mind stays rooted in place.
It happens after a few minutes. A moan slips between whines, tiny at first. She’s clearly holding back.
But as I curve my finger inside of her, sinking into the tight, slickened, warm embrace of a pussy too untested to know any better, too inexperienced not to sigh at every practiced stroke, her body lifts.
Rolls. Arches as the pad of my middle finger finds the most sensitive patch of pleasure hidden in her upper wall.
She moans—high pitched and glorious. Beautiful. Making music, making art that shivers my spine. No less grand than Beethoven, Chopin, Argerich.
Blood surges through my cock painfully. My pants are suddenly far too small.
If I slowed down, maybe I’d have a moment to collect myself, but the facade is cracked and masochism has always had its appeal. My dick says more, faster, harder. But my brain forbids me from getting too carried away. For now.
My mouth eases off her clit before I insert a second finger and move in slow strokes, like a lover. Coaxing sighs from her lungs, sighs I hope she appreciates tomorrow when the gentleness ends.
I give it to her like that for a minute before her smell makes me dizzy. Then I lower my mouth to her pussy and lick her off my finger.
When my thumb rubs her clit so I can focus my mouth on her pussy, she mewls, her ankles digging into the bed.
My own moan vibrates her core, my mouth buried in her opening, and for a moment, I still. My eyes open. I shouldn’t be moaning. That’s too far.
“Stop,” she hisses like she feels obligated to protest once again. Her hips rise into me like her body is as deceitful as mine. She’s close. She hates that she’s close, but she’s close.
My thumb on her clit circles at a faster pace, winding like a wheel that’s just found momentum—my hips subtly grinding into the bed. My cock is so hard, it’s throbbing, pulsing, straining. I feel like I might come just from fucking the bed, and that is... I’ll have to kill myself.
“Please stop. Stop!” She shouts, but her shout is chased by a moan. I glance up to see her eyes clenched shut, her head tilted back. I can feel Thorne’s presence in the doorway and wonder if he’s as turned on by this as I am.
The girl’s knees lift as she wiggles her ass, either searching for pleasure or running from it. Either way, it grabs her.
I latch my lips onto her clit while forcing a third finger into her pussy. My tongue rolls before I start sucking, and it’s less than a minute before those sexy moans turn into a choir of high-pitched notes, dancing off her tongue like she’s singing for me.
I shove in harder, fighting the pillowy muscle that squeezes my fingers, my cock surging against the bed. I eagerly work my belt. Its jingle mixes with the girl’s heavy breaths as she recovers from her orgasm.
“That’s enough!” Thorne yells, making me pause.
My hand fisting my belt, I turn to look at him with what I hope isn’t a glare.
What. The. Fuck.
“One week, Sawyer,” he says, his chin raising. His face is tomato red, his eyes blazing. Obviously, that did not turn him on.
He’s the one who kidnapped the girl, but to him, I’m the bad guy. He wouldn’t be at the top of a cult if he wasn’t a hypocritical bastard.
He leaves before I can say a word, and I’m glad because I don’t know what to say. I face the girl too soon. I’m not sure if I mask my frustration in time. But I’m also not sure it matters. She knows I’m horny. She knows I liked that.
“You okay?” I ask, even as lust pumps my chest.
Her mortified face pinches into a glare before she turns her head, though her irises are still glazed from post orgasm bliss. It’ll be gone soon. Clarity will return with a vengeance, but the pain in my balls will remain.
The lower half of my body protests as I roll off of her, my arms stiff as my dick. I don’t look at her. I tell myself it’s because the hero I’m playing would be too ashamed, but it’s mostly because I don’t want to. Her eyes do something to me.