Chapter 14 #2
‘I’m not most people, princess,’ he says, and then he dives in again.
The sight of his hungry face, his dark head between my legs, is so much.
So confronting. I let my head collapse back on its stack of pillows, his tongue swirling over my clit with perfect precision.
I assume he’s let go of his dick, because one hand is still clamped on the inside of my knee, holding it down, while his fingers suddenly appear at my entrance.
He gives me no warning before pushing in hard—Jesus, is that two of them? —the stretch, the burn, instant.
My brain instantly, unhelpfully, and unfairly serves up a comparison with my last bedfellow, Rollo, whose attempts in this regard were underwhelming at best. I shake that off, my mind switching instantly to what my current bedfellow must be thinking.
Am I clean enough down there? I had a bath a couple of hours ago, but you never know.
Do I smell? Do I taste okay? He basically told me I was wet.
Am I too wet? Too slutty? Do men enjoy more friction? I don’t—
‘God,’ he groans against my flesh, putting a halt to my spiralling. ‘Jesus, Slinks. I’m fucking addicted.’
Okay, so that sounds not disastrous. He must, somehow, be getting some form of enjoyment or maybe just validation—power, even—out of doing this.
‘Keep your legs open,’ he says. ‘And you can let go. I’ve got you.’
He certainly does. I slide my hand up my body and let my arms fall out to my sides as he releases my leg, palming my stomach with a firm hand. He’s holding me down, I realise. Why the hell does that feel so good?
And then my mind goes silent. There’s not enough space in my brain for chatter when he’s doing this.
I focus every bit of my brainpower on processing only the sensation of Ben’s tongue lavishing me with licks and flicks, his fingers driving crudely inside me as he does, pushing me to the edge of my comfort zone, everything he’s doing adding stimulation, and friction, and God knows what else—all I know is that it’s impossible to withstand.
Physically impossible. The drag of his tongue, his fingers, has the heat building and building, and I’m spread so wide open for him that I can feel every single touch.
I feel greedy, greedier than I’ve ever felt.
My avarice where this impending orgasm is concerned is a monstrous thing compared to all those years of waiting and calculating and fantasising where Xavier was concerned—not about him, not for a moment, but about the rest of it.
Belvedere. The title. But who gives a shit about any of it?
Nothing outside of this room matters anymore; nothing but the relentless rasp of Benedict’s tongue against my clit and the cruel, glorious pumps of his fingers.
I’m making noises, I realise. I’m thrashing about, only the hand splayed across my stomach tethering me to the bed.
I don’t even care. I’m not performing like I usually do in bed: I’m way past worrying about what I look or sound or taste or smell or feel like.
All those shoulds, all those tyrannical markers of how I should behave, what I should offer my bed partner to please him, are gone like dandelion seeds in the wind.
All I care about is coming.
‘I’m— Shit,’ I gasp out, and then I am, in fact, coming, my orgasm slamming into me like a tsunami, a wave of utter destruction that picks me up and has me spinning through the air as pleasure pumps through every vein in my body like hot treacle, rendering me weightless and boneless and totally fucking useless.
Ben’s laps gentle as if he can read my mind, as if he knows I’m growing more sensitive.
It’s a fair few seconds before the fog of ecstasy begins to clear, making way—instantly—for doubt and shame and self-consciousness to creep in.
Oh my God, I was so unhinged. How embarrassing.
Ben must have been laughing at me down there, if he wasn’t completely horrified.
He withdraws his fingers and kisses my pubic bone.
I feel his absence like a slight, even if my body can’t take any more.
I’m lying here like a total tool, and suddenly I feel so exposed and mortified and—
Quick as a flash, he crawls up between my legs and covers all this bareness with his body, its weight as welcome as a security blanket, as he finds my mouth and kisses me.
He tastes like me. The kiss is hot and hard, the kiss of a man who’s desperate, and, sure enough, the dick notched right where his mouth has been is every inch as hot and hard.
‘I’ve never tasted anything so fucking delicious in my life,’ he growls against my mouth. The declaration may be outrageous, but he accompanies it with a thrust that tells me he means it.
I need to give him something now, something in return, so he doesn’t think I’m selfish and greedy and a waste of time.
Besides, I find I want to. I really, really want to.
My clit is still super sensitive after that onslaught, but my actual insides feel achy and empty after his fingers.
I need him to fill me up in a way I can’t quite explain.
‘I’m on birth control,’ I blurt out. It’s an inelegant way to approach the obvious next topic of conversation, but I’m in a hurry.
And I really, really want him inside me.
The only question, given I’m about to sleep with one of the biggest fuckboys in Europe, is whether he’s been tested, but I don’t know how to—
‘Good,’ he barks out, pulling some mystery manoeuvre that flips us over so I’m lying on top of him, his hands trailing lazily over my back, my bottom.
‘Fuck knows, we don’t need any little heirs crawling around the place just yet.
And I’m clean. Took myself off to a very dodgy clinic in Oxford between Christmas and New Year. ’
I giggle, relief overcoming self-consciousness as I put my palms on his pecs and push up a little. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ He gazes up at me. He is so fucking hot that I don’t even know what to do with myself. ‘I don’t mess around with this stuff. Besides, you’re about to make it worth my while. Get me inside you, woman.’