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Authors: Skye Warren
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fiercely as I thought he’d do with his cock—as if he’s dying to feel my heat, my softness. He gathers up all my juices on his tongue, and then he forces me to make more.
I reach back and hold on to the sofa as if it can anchor me, but the force of his will is too strong. One lick on my clit, then two. When he presses his lips around my clit and sucks, I push off the couch and climax in long, draining pulses that leave me sated.
He’s not done with me.
His mouth never leaves my flesh. He drinks my orgasm down, then immediately starts pushing me toward another one.
“No,” I gasp. “Too much.” I’m too sensitive, feeling too much pleasure. Who would have known it could feel like pain? I’ve never had anyone give me enough to find out.
Large hands press my legs down, and he feasts on me.
I’m trembling and crying out by the time I come again, bucking against him, fucking his mouth.
My body collapses on the couch, still shaking from the aftershocks. And he doesn’t let up. I look down and see the wicked glint in his eyes. He loves tasting me, loves making me come so hard my muscles turn to jelly. Over and over again. This is why I needed to be somewhere warm—because I’m shivering when I’m not in the middle of climax. This is why I needed to be somewhere soft. I sink into the cushions and let them carry me away, pleasure like waves lapping at my skin.
I can’t keep track of how many times he makes me come. At some point I think they aren’t even separate times, but one long stretch of bliss. I feel incandescent, glowing from the inside, the heat from my climaxes visible through my skin.
His hands press down on the inside of my thighs, tighter as he fights for control, and I know he’ll leave bruises. He’s hurting me, and he’s hurting himself. It’s part of the game he plays with us, taking us both higher.
Just when I think I can’t take any more—that he can’t take any more—he kneels between my legs.
With one hand he notches his cock against my slick entrance. With his other hand, he grabs my hip, steadying me. Only then do I realize my hips are moving on their own, fucking the air—I’m that far gone to this, to sex. To him.
He presses inside me. When he’s all the way inside, he groans. It sounds like agony. “No condom.”
“Don’t stop.” I’m not even sure I’ve formed the words correctly. I may have just made an urgent sound, a desperate sound, but he seems to understand.
His eyes are almost pitch-black with need. “Are you sure?”
I squeeze him with my inner muscles, and that’s all the answer he needs. He starts fucking me hard, rocking the whole couch with each thrust. The force of his thrusts push me up the sofa until I’m tipping over the side. I let my head and shoulders hang over the edge, reveling in the pure savagery.
Then I feel his hard chest meet my breasts. His hand cups the back of my head, and he’s holding me up, holding me to him while he kisses me. It’s a tender kiss, a sharp contrast to the way his body slams into mine.
He fucks me until I sob his name and come around him. I milk his orgasms right out of him because he follows right behind, his rough groan like music—a haunting tune I know I’ll think of later, when he’s gone.
When he pulls out, he looks down, and I do too. My sex is flushed pink and swollen with the pounding he’s given me. His cock is dark, almost purple at the tip, and shiny from his come.
His come. He came inside me. No condom.
His gaze acknowledges the loss, but he doesn’t look worried. He looks satisfied, almost smug. “You’re mine now.”
Chapter Sixteen
H e lets me wash up, a short reprieve. I clean myself with water and soap, but they do nothing to diminish the feel of him coming inside me, the insistent jet of come that marks me as his. It was a primitive feeling—skin to skin, the hot wash of come.
I feel claimed even though I don’t believe in things like that.
I search through his drawers
I reach back and hold on to the sofa as if it can anchor me, but the force of his will is too strong. One lick on my clit, then two. When he presses his lips around my clit and sucks, I push off the couch and climax in long, draining pulses that leave me sated.
He’s not done with me.
His mouth never leaves my flesh. He drinks my orgasm down, then immediately starts pushing me toward another one.
“No,” I gasp. “Too much.” I’m too sensitive, feeling too much pleasure. Who would have known it could feel like pain? I’ve never had anyone give me enough to find out.
Large hands press my legs down, and he feasts on me.
I’m trembling and crying out by the time I come again, bucking against him, fucking his mouth.
My body collapses on the couch, still shaking from the aftershocks. And he doesn’t let up. I look down and see the wicked glint in his eyes. He loves tasting me, loves making me come so hard my muscles turn to jelly. Over and over again. This is why I needed to be somewhere warm—because I’m shivering when I’m not in the middle of climax. This is why I needed to be somewhere soft. I sink into the cushions and let them carry me away, pleasure like waves lapping at my skin.
I can’t keep track of how many times he makes me come. At some point I think they aren’t even separate times, but one long stretch of bliss. I feel incandescent, glowing from the inside, the heat from my climaxes visible through my skin.
His hands press down on the inside of my thighs, tighter as he fights for control, and I know he’ll leave bruises. He’s hurting me, and he’s hurting himself. It’s part of the game he plays with us, taking us both higher.
Just when I think I can’t take any more—that he can’t take any more—he kneels between my legs.
With one hand he notches his cock against my slick entrance. With his other hand, he grabs my hip, steadying me. Only then do I realize my hips are moving on their own, fucking the air—I’m that far gone to this, to sex. To him.
He presses inside me. When he’s all the way inside, he groans. It sounds like agony. “No condom.”
“Don’t stop.” I’m not even sure I’ve formed the words correctly. I may have just made an urgent sound, a desperate sound, but he seems to understand.
His eyes are almost pitch-black with need. “Are you sure?”
I squeeze him with my inner muscles, and that’s all the answer he needs. He starts fucking me hard, rocking the whole couch with each thrust. The force of his thrusts push me up the sofa until I’m tipping over the side. I let my head and shoulders hang over the edge, reveling in the pure savagery.
Then I feel his hard chest meet my breasts. His hand cups the back of my head, and he’s holding me up, holding me to him while he kisses me. It’s a tender kiss, a sharp contrast to the way his body slams into mine.
He fucks me until I sob his name and come around him. I milk his orgasms right out of him because he follows right behind, his rough groan like music—a haunting tune I know I’ll think of later, when he’s gone.
When he pulls out, he looks down, and I do too. My sex is flushed pink and swollen with the pounding he’s given me. His cock is dark, almost purple at the tip, and shiny from his come.
His come. He came inside me. No condom.
His gaze acknowledges the loss, but he doesn’t look worried. He looks satisfied, almost smug. “You’re mine now.”
Chapter Sixteen
H e lets me wash up, a short reprieve. I clean myself with water and soap, but they do nothing to diminish the feel of him coming inside me, the insistent jet of come that marks me as his. It was a primitive feeling—skin to skin, the hot wash of come.
I feel claimed even though I don’t believe in things like that.
I search through his drawers
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