Chapter 18 #2
He began to walk, still holding me aloft, my legs locked around him.
He carried me from the wall to the bed, his steps measured and sure.
When we reached the edge, he lowered me gently onto the soft duvet, my back sinking into the mattress.
He followed me down, his body covering mine, his mouth returning to my breasts as he settled beside me.
But he didn’t stay there long. He kissed a path down my sternum, his lips soft and warm. He traced the curve of my ribs, then dipped lower to my stomach. His tongue swirled in the dip of my navel, and I squirmed, a laugh mixing with a moan.
Then he rose.
He stood beside the bed, looking down at me. I lay there, my dress bunched at my waist, my breasts bare and heaving, my hair spread across the pillows. His gaze was possessive, worshipful, hot. He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one swift motion.
My eyes drank him in. The broad shoulders, the sculpted chest, the flat stomach. He was beautiful. Powerful.
His hands returned to me. He grasped the silk at my waist and pushed it downward, peeling the dress away from my hips, my thighs, until it slipped free and joined the bra on the floor. Now I wore only my panties—simple, white cotton.
He knelt between my legs on the bed. His eyes locked on the thin fabric covering my last secret. His hands settled on my inner thighs, stroking upwards.
“These are mine too,” he said, his voice low and final.
His fingers hooked into the sides of the panties. Instead of sliding them down, he pulled. The cotton tore with a soft rip, rending apart and leaving me completely exposed to him.
I gasped, shocked by the suddenness, by the deliberate destruction. It felt like a symbol. There would be no barriers left. Nothing between us.
He didn’t speak. He simply looked. His gaze traveled over my naked body, lingering on my breasts, then moving lower to where I lay open to him. I was breathing heavily, my chest flushing pink, my nipples stiff and aching.
Then he bent forward.
He didn’t touch me with his hands first. He simply lowered his head and kissed me there.
A soft, closed-mouth kiss right on my center. It was so tender, so unexpected, that tears pricked my eyes.
Then his mouth opened. His tongue emerged, tasting me lightly. A slow, exploratory stroke from bottom to top.
I cried out, my hips lifting off the bed involuntarily.
He hummed again, the sound vibrating through my most sensitive flesh.
Then he began to work. His tongue moved in firm, deliberate circles, tracing my shape, dipping into my folds, seeking out every responsive spot.
His lips suckled gently. One of his hands came up to rest on my lower belly, holding me steady, while the other found one of my breasts again, his thumb brushing over my nipple in rhythm with the movements of his mouth.
It was overwhelming. The dual sensations—the wet, hot, focused attention below and the teasing, rhythmic pleasure above—coalesced into a building storm inside me.
My moans became constant, a messy, pleading stream of sound.
I was arching off the bed, my hands fisting in the duvet, my legs spreading wider to give him more access.
“Please…” I whimpered, not knowing what I was asking for.
He knew. He increased his pace, his tongue flicking faster, his suction becoming more deliberate. He found a particular spot and concentrated there, lavishing it with attention until my whole body was trembling, until the storm was cresting, ready to break.
I was about to come. The tension was coiled tight, ready to snap.
He lifted his head.
His face was wet, his lips glistening. He looked at me, his eyes blazing with triumph and desire. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Not like this.”
He stood up again, swiftly. His hands went to his belt. He unbuckled it, the sound loud in the quiet room. He unbuttoned his trousers, pushed them down, along with his briefs. They fell to the floor.
He was fully exposed now. And he was… magnificent. Thick, long, fully erect. My eyes widened. A flutter of nervous excitement—and a tinge of fear—tightened in my stomach.
He saw my look. He came back to the bed, kneeling over me again, his body hovering above mine. He kissed my mouth softly, swallowing my gasp.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice absolute. “I will be gentle.”
He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue mingling with mine. Then he shifted his position, settling between my legs. His hand guided himself, placing his length at my entrance. He was hot, so hot, against my sensitive skin.
He pushed. Just a little. Just the tip.
A sharp, stretching sensation bloomed inside me. A moan-scream tore from my lips. It wasn’t just pain; it was a shocking, profound fullness.
He froze. His hand came up to cup my breast, his thumb stroking my nipple soothingly. “Easy,” he murmured. “Easy, Baby. I’m here.”
He pushed again, another incremental advance. He was halfway now. The stretch deepened, the feeling of being filled intensified. I was breathing in sharp, ragged pants, my eyes locked on his face.
“Just a little more,” he coaxed, his voice thick with restraint. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
I nodded, unable to form words. I was ready. I wanted all of him.
He pushed in fully.
The feeling was… indescribable. A complete, overwhelming invasion. A joining. I felt him everywhere, a presence so profound I thought I might fracture around him. My eyes filled with tears again.
He was inside me. We were connected. Truly, finally, connected.
He didn’t move. He held himself there, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of his stillness. He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my eyelids. “I’ll wait,” he whispered. “Until you tell me.”
I felt the initial sharpness begin to soften, to melt into a warmer, deeper sensation. The fullness became less alien, more welcome. The pleasure he’d built with his mouth began to rekindle, mixing with this new, profound intimacy.
I shifted my hips, experimentally. A tiny movement.
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound. “Okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I breathed.
He began. Slowly. A gentle withdrawal, then a careful return. The motion was exquisite. I felt every inch of him, every contour. His chest rubbed against my breasts with each thrust, the friction on my sensitized nipples sending sparks through me.
He gathered my legs, wrapping them around his waist again. He touched something new inside me. A low, surprised moan escaped me.
“Good?” he asked, his voice strained.
“So good,” I gasped.
His pace increased incrementally. The slow, careful strokes became more confident, more powerful.
He was still controlled, still attentive, but the passion was taking over.
His hips moved with a building rhythm. His hands roamed my body—one clutching my hip, the other returning again to my breast, kneading the heavy flesh, plucking at my nipple.
The pleasure was building again, higher and hotter than before.
It wasn’t just the physical sensation now; it was the look in his eyes, the possessiveness and the tenderness mixed together.
It was the feeling of being claimed by someone who cherished me.
It was the month of loneliness evaporating in this heat.
“Armaan,” I pleaded, my voice breaking. “Please… faster.”
His control shattered. A growl ripped from his throat. His thrusts became powerful, driving, relentless. The bed rocked beneath us. My breasts bounced with the force of his movements, a heavy, rhythmic jiggle that his eyes followed, his gaze hungry and fixed.
The storm broke. The coil of tension snapped. Pleasure erupted through me, blinding and total. I cried out, my body convulsing around him, my back arching off the bed.
He saw it, felt it. His own rhythm became frantic, wild. A few more brutal, deep thrusts and he stiffened, a raw, guttural shout tearing from him as he reached his own peak. He drove into me one final, deep time and held there, shuddering, as his release joined mine.
He collapsed onto me, his weight a welcome burden. His face buried in my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin. We stayed like that, joined, trembling, for long minutes. The only sound was our panting breaths slowing gradually.
Finally, he shifted, withdrawing from me slowly.
He rolled to the side, gathering me immediately into his arms. He pulled me against his chest, my back to his front, and wrapped himself around me.
His hand settled possessively on my breast again, not teasing now, just holding, as if to remind himself that I was here, that I was real.