Chapter 8 #2
He pushed one finger inside me, then a second.
They curled, stroking a spot that made my back arch off the furs.
A broken cry tore from my throat. “That’s it,” he encouraged, his breath hot against my neck.
He pumped his fingers slowly, relentlessly, while his thumb pressed circles on my clit.
The pressure built, a terrifying wave cresting inside me.
I was panting, begging with sounds that weren’t words.
Just as the first flutters of orgasm began deep in my belly, he stopped.
He withdrew his fingers completely. I whimpered, a sound of pure loss.
He shushed me, bringing his wet fingers to my lips.
“Taste,” he commanded. I opened my mouth, and he slid them inside.
The taste of my own arousal was musky, sweet.
I sucked his fingers clean, my eyes burning behind the silk.
“Good girl,” he breathed, and the praise seared me more than any touch.
He moved down my body, his hands pushing my thighs wider apart.
Then his mouth was on me. The first flat stroke of his tongue from my entrance to my clit stole the air from my lungs.
He licked into me, lapping at my wetness, then zeroed in on my clit with focused, rhythmic flicks.
His hands held my hips down, pinning me to the furs as I writhed.
The pleasure was sharper, more intense than his fingers.
It built even faster, a coil winding tighter and tighter.
I was so close, so fucking close, chanting his name.
He pulled away again. I sobbed. “Virgil, please.”
“Please what?” His voice was rough, right between my legs. “Let me come. I need to come.”
“You will. When I say.” He replaced his mouth with his fingers, driving them back into my pussy, fucking me with them hard and fast. The orgasm gathered again, a storm about to break.
He felt it, I know he did—my muscles clamping around his fingers, my cries growing desperate.
He stopped again, leaving me hollow and trembling on the edge.
Tears of frustration leaked from beneath the blindfold.
He kissed my inner thigh, a soft apology.
“Once more,” he said. “Then I’ll give it to you. ”
He lowered his head again. This time, he used his tongue and his fingers together, one plunging inside me, the other circling my clit.
He set a brutal, perfect rhythm. The climb was agonizing, exquisite.
I was nothing but sensation, a vessel for the pleasure he poured into me.
My hands fisted in the furs. I was begging, babbling.
“Now,” he growled against my sex. The command shattered me.
My orgasm ripped through me, violent and endless, my body bowing off the dais as I screamed.
He didn’t stop, licking and fingering me through the convulsions, drawing out every last pulse until I was a shuddering, oversensitive wreck.
He crawled up my body, kissing my stomach, my breasts, my throat.
I felt the hard ridge of his cock pressing against my thigh through his trousers.
I reached for him, my hands clumsy. “Let me,” I whispered, my voice ragged. “Please.”
He captured my wrist, brought my hand to his fly. I fumbled with the button and zip, then reached inside. His dick was hot, velvety steel in my hand. I stroked him, and he hissed, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “Inside,” I pleaded. “I need you inside.”
He shifted, positioning himself at my entrance.
The broad head of his cock nudged against my soaked folds.
He pushed in, an inch, then retreated. Again.
Stretching me, making me feel every millimeter.
“Look at me,” he said, though I was blindfolded.
I turned my face up toward his, my lips parted.
He drove home. The fullness was shocking, glorious.
He filled me completely, his pelvis grinding against mine.
He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust. Then he began to move.
His thrusts were deep, controlled, each one dragging against that perfect spot inside me.
He fucked me with a steady, possessive rhythm, his breathing harsh in my ear.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting each thrust. “You take me so well,” he gritted out. “This sweet, tight pussy. All mine.”
His words pushed me toward another peak.
The friction, the fullness, the sound of our bodies joining—it was too much.
I felt another orgasm building, this one slower, deeper, radiating from where we were joined.
“Come with me,” I gasped. He answered with a harder, faster pace.
His control was fraying. I could feel it in the jerk of his hips, the tight coil of his muscles.
I clutched at his back, my nails digging in.
“Anna.” My name was a prayer, a curse. His thrusts became erratic, pounding into me. “Now.”
My second climax crashed over me, a wave of pure white heat that melted my bones.
He groaned, a raw, shattered sound, and I felt his cock pulse inside me as he came, his release flooding me, hot and endless.
He collapsed on top of me, his weight a welcome anchor.
Our hearts hammered together in the silent room.
Slowly, he rolled to the side, taking me with him, keeping us joined.
He untied the blindfold. The silk fell away.
The room was exactly as it had been—the fabrics, the fountain, the soft light.
But I was different. I blinked up at the vaulted ceiling, seeing it with new eyes.
Virgil brushed the damp hair from my forehead.
His gaze was fierce, tender. “You trusted me,” he said, as if it was the most remarkable thing in the world.
I turned into him, burying my face against his neck.
I had. And in the ruins of my anxiety, in the labyrinth of sensation, I’d found something solid. Him.