Chapter 44 #3
She withdrew her fingers, soaked with arousal, and he let out a breath through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to pounce.
“Smear it on your clit. Slowly. Don’t rush it. Let yourself feel everything I’m doing to you—without laying a fucking hand on you.”
A sharp groan rumbled in his chest as she obeyed, her fingers slick and shaking. "That’s it," he growled, heat pouring into every syllable. “Rub it in. Slow. Let it burn, sweetheart. Let it take you under.”
Her movements became more deliberate, more controlled despite the trembling of her thighs. Each circle of her fingers pulled a soft sound from her lips—breathy moans and stuttering whimpers that tested the edge of his restraint.
Ben couldn't fucking take it anymore. The sight of her—flushed and needy, stroking herself at his command—shattered the last fraying thread of control he’d been clinging to.
He stepped forward, movements smooth but predatory, gaze locked on her like prey he was finally ready to claim.
He dropped to his knees between her thighs, slow and assured. His stare didn’t waver. It devoured her. The look she gave him—open, ruined, trembling and defiant all at once—set him ablaze.
"Spread wider," he growled, voice thick and gritty, desire barely leashed. "Let me see all of you."
She obeyed, legs falling open in offering. Her fingers still moved beneath the black lace, drawing slick sounds that made his cock throb.
"Touch your tits," he ordered, voice dark silk wrapped around steel. "I want to see your fingers on those perfect fucking nipples. Now."
Her hand lifted, moved to her chest. She pinched and rolled herself beneath the fabric, and the sound she made—high, helpless—punched through him like heat.
"Mmm, yeah. That’s it," he murmured, voice ragged with approval. "So fucking perfect for me. Keep going."
The way she whimpered—how eager she was to obey—ignited something dangerous in him. His voice dipped, molten and hungry. "You like it when I watch, don’t you? When I make you do it just the way I want."
She whimpered and obeyed.
And Ben moved—closer, darker, ready to claim what was already his.
Slow. Intentional.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties, and this time, he didn’t just pull them aside—he slid them down her thighs, past her knees, until the lace hit the floor. She stepped out of them without hesitation.
Now she was completely bare to him.
And this time—he could really see her.
The last time he’d had his mouth between her thighs, the room had been cloaked in shadows, in secrecy. Just sensation and heat and the sound of her falling apart under him. He hadn’t been able to look—not like this.
Now the morning light spilled across her body, soft but merciless. And fuck, she was even more beautiful than his imagination had dared to fill in.
She stood there, flushed and open, her legs parting just enough to grant him the full view.
Swollen. Slick. Glinting with arousal. Her folds flushed dark with need, glistening where her wetness coated every inch of her.
And nestled above all that slick, aching heat—a soft patch of neatly trimmed curls that framed her just right, the kind of detail that made something primal growl to life inside his chest.
She clenched again—tight, involuntary—like her body was already missing the weight of his mouth.
Ben's teeth ground together. His cock ached with brutal insistence.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough with awe and heat. “Look at this mess.”
He leans closer, eyes locked on her center like a man starving.
“You’re dripping for me.”
The reverence in his voice was filthier than anything else he could’ve said.
He couldn't just watch anymore—he needed to feel her, taste her, claim her.
His fingers slid inside her—deep, relentless. Two at once, curling upward until her back arched clean off the couch.
He knew her body now. Knew exactly how to touch her. How to wreck her.
She cried out, the sound raw and broken, and Ben groaned at the way she clenched around him—tight, pulsing, drenched.
The slick heat of her soaked his hand, dragged him deeper into his own spiraling need.
"That's it," he growled, eyes fixed on her flushed, contorted face. "Show me how much you want this."
Then his mouth was on her.
No warning. No teasing. Just a man with a mission.
His tongue stroked upward—slow, deliberate passes, from the base of her entrance to the tip of her clit, pressing firm, savoring every taste. Now and then, he dipped lower, letting his tongue graze that sensitive spot just above her entrance, where nerves were sharpest and reactions most immediate.
Her hips jerked.
He pinned them down with one hand, holding her in place while his mouth returned to her clit with single-minded focus.
He sucked gently, lips sealing around the swollen bud, then dragged his lower lip slowly across it, back and forth, building her tension like it was a language only he could speak.
His fingers never stopped moving inside her—deeper, firmer, perfectly timed with every motion of his tongue.
She was trembling now, body straining, moaning like she was coming apart cell by cell beneath him.
Ben pulled back just enough to speak, his voice wrecked with need, rough and wild against her burning skin.
“You taste like fucking madness,” he growled, licking her off his lips like he needed the flavor to breathe.
Then he was back—devouring her like salvation and sin twisted into one unbearable craving. His mouth moved with raw purpose, and every moan she gave him only fed the fire, drove him deeper, darker, hungrier.
She was close. So close.
And Ben?
He wasn’t stopping until she shattered.
He watched, entranced, as Kath's hands moved to her breasts, fingers tugging and rolling her nipples through the thin fabric of her shirt.
The sight of her pleasuring herself while he worked between her thighs sent a jolt of pure heat straight to his groin.
Her self-touch wasn't tentative anymore—it was desperate, needy, matching the rhythm of his fingers driving into her.
Every sound she made—each gasp, each whimper, each broken moan—pushed him closer to the edge.
The way she said his name, breathless and pleading, made his cock throb painfully against the confines of his pants.
He’d never wanted anyone like this. Never felt this raw, consuming need to take, to claim.
Ben moaned against her, the deep rumble vibrating through her clit as his tongue moved in slow, powerful strokes—up and down, deliberate, devouring.
He wasn’t messy. He was methodical. Focused.
Lips sealed around her, tongue flicking and pressing with just the right amount of pressure, just the right rhythm to keep her teetering at the edge.
His fingers curled inside her at the perfect angle, pressing into that spot that made her thighs tremble, her muscles lock.
She was shaking now, fighting the inevitable.
He sucked her clit between his lips, just once—firm and slow—then used his lower lip to drag across it with aching pressure. Her cry was immediate. Wild. Raw.
She was unraveling beneath him, her body trembling as pleasure tore through her. Her hips lifted again and again, chasing more—more pressure, more friction, more of him.
And Ben gave it.
Every stroke of his tongue, every curl of his fingers, tuned to her body like he was playing her from the inside out.
"Ben," she gasped, voice breaking. "Please, I can't—I need—"
Her begging was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.
The mighty Katherine Winters, reduced to incoherent pleas by his mouth and hands. The power of it was intoxicating, making him growl against her flesh, the sound primal and possessive.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against her swollen, sensitive skin. His fingers never stopped their relentless assault, driving into her with purpose, with ownership.
"Come for me," he growled, voice rough with desire.
"Right now. Soak my fingers."
The command was absolute, brooking no argument.
He expected to be obeyed, and in this moment—with Kath writhing beneath him, desperate and wanting—he knew she would comply.
Ben watched as his command triggered something primal in her.
Kath’s body went rigid for one suspended moment before she shattered completely, her release crashing through her with devastating force.
Her cry echoed through the room—raw, unfiltered, almost desperate—as her back arched off the couch, her thighs clamping tight around his head.
He didn’t relent.
Not yet.
Instead, he held her there—fingers thrusting deep, tongue unyielding—as her orgasm rippled through her in fierce, uncontrollable waves. Her inner walls clenched around his fingers with violent pulses, her body convulsing with pleasure he’d summoned and refused to let her escape from.
She was saying his name now, over and over, the sound fractured and pleading. Her hands gripped his hair, torn between pulling him closer or pushing him away as the intensity overwhelmed her.
Ben stayed with her through every second of it—every twitch, every cry, every stuttering breath.
Only when he felt her begin to loosen, the tension ebbing from her muscles, the pulsing around his fingers slowing to soft, fluttering aftershocks—only then did he ease back.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately, dragging them against her oversensitive flesh one last time as her body trembled beneath him.
And even then, he didn’t take his eyes off her.
Ben rose to his feet with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment.
He tugged his pants back into place, though they still hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the fabric.
He didn’t bother hiding his satisfaction—it radiated from him in the confident set of his shoulders, the lazy power in his movements, the gleam in his eyes that was more predator than man.
Without fanfare, he brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean—slow, unhurried, and practiced. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Her arousal coated his tongue, warm and familiar, and he didn’t waste a drop.
Katherine lay sprawled on the couch, shirt rumpled, thighs still trembling. Her hair was wild around her face, her skin flushed and marked, the aftershocks of pleasure written in every inch of her body.
And on the floor between them?
Her panties. Abandoned. Ruined. Exactly where he’d dropped them.
Ben turned away, allowing himself a private smile as he headed toward the bathroom. He’d let her recover—for now. Let her pretend she had time to catch her breath, to piece herself back together. It was adorable, really.
But him?
He wasn’t fine.
His cock throbbed against the thin cotton of his pajama pants, swollen and leaking, the fabric sticking wetly to the head with every step. He grit his teeth, jaw clenched tight, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was barely holding back from grabbing himself right then and there.
He could still feel her—on his fingers, on his tongue.
The way she’d gasped his name. The way her thighs had quivered around his head.
Fuck.
The second he hit the bathroom, he was going to lock the door, brace one hand on the wall, and jerk himself so hard it hurt.
Not slow. Not teasing. No finesse. He wanted it rough.
Messy. He wanted to fist his cock and stroke it until his arm ached, until his legs shook, until he could barely breathe.
He needed it. Needed to feel that tight, brutal pull— The kind where his muscles locked up and his vision blurred, where he came with a groan that sounded like pain, where his cum splattered the sink and he had to gasp for air like he was drowning.
He craved it. Deserved it. Because she’d unraveled under his hands, yes— But she’d taken him with her.
Ben paused at the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder.
She was still sprawled across the couch, lips parted, eyes glassy. Her shirt bunched up, panties on the ground, nipples peaked under the thin cotton. Completely fucked-out. Completely his.
And yet somehow, even ruined like that, she managed to meet his gaze with that same look—
That spark. That challenge.
"You’re welcome," he said, voice low and jagged with the desire he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore.
Her laugh—soft, disbelieving, wrecked—followed him as he disappeared into the hallway.
He didn’t walk fast. He didn’t need to. But the second the bathroom door clicked shut behind him?
He was going to destroy himself.