Chapter 31 #2
His grin fades a little. “I hope it works out for you. It would be nice to have someone you could come home to.”
His words hit harder than they should.
I don’t answer right away. I just lean forward, weighing the gravity of something I never let surface.
I’ve never needed anyone before. I’ve never wanted anyone. But she’s changed that.
And she doesn’t even know it.
“If something happens to her while I’m gone, there’s no coming back from it.”
No bravado. Just a fact.
An almost-smile tugs at Terrence’s mouth. It’s something softer than sarcasm, more reflective than either of us usually allows. “She must be something.”
“She is,” I say without hesitation. “And before you ask… no, you can’t meet her.”
“Okay. I hear you.”
Terrence leans forward, forearms braced on his knees. “I’m not trying to rush you, but I need your answer soon. This woman and her son don’t have a lot of time.”
His expression tells me exactly how bad it is. “Understood. I’ll let you know soon.”
I can tell that he wants to push harder, but he doesn’t. He knows me too well.
“I’ll keep an eye on things here. If nothing escalates, I’ll go with you. If it does, then you’re going to have to find another set of hands.”
Terrence nods. “Fair enough. But don’t wait too long. You’ve seen what happens when tomorrow comes too late.”
I nod, my thoughts already splitting in two directions.
Laurette’s safety.
The woman and her child.
And in the dead center of it all—me, deciding which fire to put out first.
The door clicks shut behind me, swallowed by the hush of the house. The air smells like her—cherry blossom and vanilla, warm and sweet, wrapped in the ghost of steam from her shower.
There’s a golden flicker down the hallway. I follow it, my pace slow, steady, and controlled.
But the control won’t last.
The bedroom glows with candlelight—one single flame. It throws shadows across the room in wide golden strokes. The bed is soaked in them.
And so is she.
Laurette lies on her back, head at the foot of the bed, a blindfold covering her eyes. Her dark hair spills down the side of the mattress, a glossy curtain catching the candlelight in soft, inky waves.
The bra and panties are gone. She’s naked, skin flushed and perfect, mouth slightly parted. Her arms rest at her sides, palms open, as if she’s waiting to be claimed.
Or devoured.
I stop cold and admire her beauty. Everything in me twists—desire and reverence and something darker causing my balls to tighten.
She did this for me—set herself up like an offering, a dare, an invitation. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
I move forward without a word.
She can’t see me, but she knows I’m here. She always does.
“I was starting to think you might stand me up.”
She doesn’t flinch or move. She lies there, blindfolded and bare, as if her only job in this world is to tempt me past reason.
“I was getting lonely. Lying here, my pussy wet and throbbing… wondering if you’d come make a mess of me.”
Fuck. Me.
My cock stiffens instantly, blood surging with violent purpose. The control I wore like armor on the way here? Gone. Broken open by nothing but her voice, from a woman who claims me without a single glance.
I may be the obsessed one, but she’s the one who has me, whether she knows it or not.
Laurette’s head tilts back slightly, throat exposed in submission. She’s offering me everything—her body, surrender, and ruin. And fuck, I don’t think she even knows what that does to me.
I step closer until I’m standing over her.
“Careful, Babygirl. You keep talking like that, and I might forget to be gentle.”
She smiles. That same wreck-me smile I’ve seen too many times in too many dark dreams. “That’s the idea.”
I move to the bed in silence. Her body is stretched out like a gift, and she doesn’t flinch when I stop in front of her.
“Open your mouth.”
There’s no hesitation. Her lips part, tongue just barely visible, breath soft and ready. The kind of obedience that doesn’t come from fear but from trust—cracked open and waiting for whatever I decide to give.
I lean over her, palms braced on the mattress, and let the heat build for a beat longer. Then I spit, watching it land on her tongue. Watching her take it like communion.
“Good girl. You take whatever I give you, don’t you? Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s dirty.”
My hand grazes her waist. “You let me ruin you because you know I’ll be the one to put you back together.”
She swallows my spit.
The blindfold might cover her eyes, but the rest of her says everything—how her chest rises, nipples tight with arousal, her breath quickening like her body’s already begging for more.
“I want everything, My Wolf, any way you want to give it to me.”
She’s hungry for it—not just the filth or praise—but for me. The parts of me I don’t offer anyone else. The control. The adoration underneath the edge.
She doesn’t just want to obey.
She wants to be devoured.
“I want your cock in my mouth. I want you to fuck my throat, hard and deep.”
She’s not pleading or blushing. She’s starving. Every word soaked in devotion and heat.
“You always focus on my pleasure. Tonight, I want you to use me. Let me make you feel good. Let me make you lose control.”
Her words shoot straight to my cock—hot, filthy, and fucking lethal.
My hands flex, every nerve drawn tight for her. There’s no mistaking what she is to me.
She’s perfect.
She is fucking perfect.
Not just because she says the things I want to hear, or gives me the things I want to take—but because she means them. Laurette doesn’t fake devotion. She doesn’t pretend to need. She offers it openly and shamelessly. That hunger is real, and it’s mine.
I couldn’t be obsessed with anyone else if I tried.
This is it.
This is her.
She is the one.
Laurette tilts her head back, lips parted in expectation. She can’t see me, but she doesn’t need to. Her trust is total and her submission complete. She offers her mouth like my dick belongs there.
I strip out of my clothes, never taking my eyes off her.
By the time I reach the bed, I’m bare—just skin, cock hard and ready, every inch of me meant for her. I wrap my fist around the base and guide myself to her lips. She opens wider, tongue flat, waiting.
Begging.
“Such a good girl.”
I push past her lips, slow at first, letting her feel every inch as I slide in. Her mouth is wet, hot, and perfect. Her lips seal around me like a promise. Her throat works instinctively, a soft, practiced swallow.
Her hands fist the sheets, and I don’t miss the way her hips shift, like the act of taking me this way lights her up everywhere.
I slide deeper, one hand braced on the edge of the mattress, the other cupping her breast, kneading the soft flesh as I fuck into her mouth. Her nipples are already tight, pebbled against my palm, begging for pressure. I pinch one, and she lets out a low moan around my cock.
It vibrates through me.
I pull back, then drive in again—deeper this time. She takes it all, gagging once. Then breathes through her nose and relaxes her throat, letting me in farther. I slow down, holding there. Just letting her feel it.
She’s so fucking good at this. Too good. Like her mouth was made to ruin me.
I roll her nipple between my fingers, drawing another moan from her, and my hips start to move on instinct—long, slow thrusts that make her throat tighten and relax in rhythm.
“You take it so well. Look at you, Babygirl. So hungry for it, so proud to choke on it.”
Her lips stretch around me, spit leaking from the corners of her mouth, her chin slick. My cock disappears between those perfect lips again and she chokes on me beautifully.
She’s mine.
Not just to fuck.
To claim. To ruin. To revere.
She shifts, trying to take me deeper, and I reward her by sliding my hand lower, over the flat of her stomach, to the soft heat between her thighs. She’s drenched. One touch and my fingers come back wet and slick.
I groan, burying the sound in the back of my throat.
“You’re soaked,” I say, fucking two fingers into her. She shudders beneath me, mouth still working, throat fluttering around the head of my cock.
I move in slow, deliberate strokes, fingers curling just right, learning the rhythm of her body all over again. Every twitch and squeeze. She’s so fucking responsive, like her body exists to be played like this. Like she was made to be undone by me and me alone.
Her hips jerk, just a little, chasing the thrust of my fingers even as she holds still enough to keep me deep in her throat. The dual focus stuns me. She’s not just good at this—she’s exceptional. A champion. A fucking prodigy of obedience and desire.
“You like that?”
She moans again, and it’s a yes even without words. Her pussy clenches tight around my fingers and I can feel her getting closer, unraveling in my hand.
I thrust deeper into her mouth, then slow down, teasing the edge of both of us. I could drown in the sight of this. Her mouth and cunt—the way she gives them both to me without hesitation.
It hits me then—this is what it means to be worshipped. Not by words. By action and surrender. By trust so complete it could level kingdoms.
No one else could do this. No one else could be this.
Only her.
I pull out of her mouth with a grunt, hand tight around the base of my cock. Her lips are flushed, spit-slick, her chest rising with shallow, wrecked breaths. One more stroke and I spill, thick and hot, painting her chin, throat, and tits. I don’t aim, and I don’t hold back. I let go.
She gasps when it hits her, but there’s no hesitation or flinch. She tilts her head, tongue flicking out to catch the drop clinging to her lip. Then she drags it back into her mouth, slow and filthy, savoring the taste of me.
I drag my fingers through the mess on her chest. My cum coats my hand, warm and slick. I rub it into her skin with slow, circular pressure, massaging it into the soft slope of her breasts like it’s something sacred.