And, fuck, does it feel good.
He works himself into me slowly at first, but each stroke is deep and forceful all the same; he drives himself into me up to the hilt, until he can go no further, and the feel of him moving inside me, rocking his hips against me, his hands on my ass, and my hips…and then on my breasts, when he curves himself over me, kneeling on the edge of the bed, and reaches around to knead my flesh, is addictive as hell. Here is the progression of my addiction, the next step, my first actual taste. I am in so much fucking trouble.
My brain lights up like a completed circuit board when he nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck and he bites down hard on my shoulder. The pain is a salve that deadens every other aching, wounded part of me. My entire being is focused on the small area of my body where his teeth almost break my skin and I burn.
“Fuck, Chase. You’re tight as hell. You feel fucking incredible,” he pants. His breath is hot in my ear, sending a waterfall of sensation down the back of my neck, prickling over my buttocks and down the back of my thighs.
A building wall of pressure starts to mount inside me. It feels…oh God, it feels good. I push back against him, angling my hips, letting my head hang, as Pax picks up speed, plunging himself into me faster and faster. “That good?” he growls.
“Yes. Fuck, yes.” I can hardly get the words out.
“What about now?” He runs his hand down my side, then slips it in between my legs, finding and quickly working my clit from the front, and my head damn near explodes at the contact.
He knows what he’s doing all right. He knows exactly how to touch me, to coax me toward the edge. I barely need any encouragement at all before I can feel myself tumbling…
“Good girl. My good little slut. Come for me now. Come all over my dick. Give me what I want. Shhh. That’s it. That’s it. Good girl.”
He croons into my ear as he fucks me, and I’m helpless. All I can do is buck and writhe against his cock and his hand as I break into pieces. It’s never felt like this before. My orgasms have always been shameful, horrible things that I’ve tried to escape. This is nothing like that, though. This climax is beautiful and staggering and surrendering to it is a relief. As if a weight I’ve been clinging onto has finally been lifted from my shoulders, after being strapped to my back for years.
“Ahh! Oh my god. Pax! Pax, I’m coming!”
“Good girl. Harder.” Suddenly, his hand’s locked around my throat, and he’s cutting off my air supply. “Come harder for me, Chase. Soak my cock.”
He gets what he wants. The surge of wetness feels like a release, a key turning in a lock and a door swinging open. Something unfurling inside of me and escaping. Pax purrs his approval into my ear. Instead of slowing now that I’ve come, he quickens his pace. He straightens up, grabbing me by the hips again and begins to thrust faster and faster, harder and harder, and I feel the orgasm renewing, resurfacing, building again out of nowhere.
“Fuck! Pax! You’re gonna make—I’m gonna—oh shit!
I come again. Even harder. The secondary climax is a bomb going off in my head. Before I can recover from the explosion of sensation that’s just simultaneously detonated between my legs and inside my head, Pax flips me over onto my back. He grabs me by my hips and drags me to the very edge of the bed.
In one swift, quick movement, he rips the condom off of his dick and closes his hand around his raging erection, stroking himself aggressively. His eyes are burning, his jaw clenched, nostrils flared. I take one look at him in all his raw, savage beauty and I almost come for a third time on the spot.
“Open your mouth, Chase.” His words are clipped, forced out through clenched teeth.
I open my mouth.
“Stick out your tongue.”
I do.
“Further. As far as it’ll go.”
I do.
“Good.” He locks eyes with me and doesn’t look away. I stare back at him, determined to witness the moment when he comes. When he does, I watch him mesmerized. His eyelids shutter, his mouth falling open, and the world stops fucking spinning. He explodes, and his come erupts over the flat of my tongue, over my chin, my neck…
I expect the taste of musk, and salt, and general unpleasantness, but he hardly tastes of anything at all. I lie very still, breathing hard down my nose as Pax catches his bottom lip in between his teeth and uses his fingers to rub his come all over my tongue and my lips.
“Fuck, Firebrand.” His voice is so hoarse. He seems fascinated by the sight of me, painted in his semen. I can feel it running down the column of my neck, pooling in the hollow of my throat. “Close your mouth,” he rasps out. “Fucking swallow me.”
I swallow him, and a look of deep, deep satisfaction spreads across his face. He holds me by the jaw again, studying me. “There, pretty girl. You like my come?”
I nod. I’d speak, but he’s holding onto me so tightly that his fingers are digging into my cheeks, forcing my mouth open, and I physically can’t.
“Good. I’m gonna shoot inside your pussy next time. If you show up here again, your ass better be on birth control,” he grits out. “I won’t fuck you wearing one of those things again.”
He lets me go and sits back on his heels, observing the mess he’s made of me.
“You want me to come back again?” I ask quietly. Try not to sound fazed by the fact that I’m lying on top of his bed, naked, still buzzing from the orgasms that he ripped out of me.
Pax’s eyes harden. “Doesn’t make a difference to me. So long as you do exactly as you’re told, I’ll fuck the living shit out of you as much as you like. But the second you wanna talk about this…” His eyes narrow. “The second you bring up any of this shit outside of this bedroom, we’re fucking done. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Then we’re good. You can clean yourself up in the bathroom down the hall on your way out.”
18
PAX
* * *
Worth it.
Chase will never know how fucking painful railing her was, but let me tell you, it was fucking worth it. I’d swallow glass to sample that perfect little pussy again.
I spend what remains of the break laid up in bed, playing Call Of Duty and eating junk food. Lord Dashiell Lovett himself graces me with his presence most days. If not him, then Wren. One of them hangs out with me in the afternoons, playing video games and not talking about anything, which is appreciated, even if incessant fussing is not. Dash gripes at me enough to coerce me into the shower every day.
During one of the rare moments I’m alone, I develop the film on the Canon and tack the photos I took of Chase up on the wall inside my converted closet/makeshift dark room. I find myself dipping in there at least three times a day to frown at the images, hands jammed aggressively into my pockets, trying to figure out where the other day came from.
I know how to fucking read people.
I know for a stone-cold fact that Presley Maria Witton Chase was terrified of me at one point. I guess I’m kind of remembering that night in the forest, now, too. I’d gotten sufficiently drunk that I decided it was finally time to screw with her. She’d been sufficiently drunk that she hadn’t run away from me. She was still petrified of me, though. I have this vague, hazy recollection of her whimpering, snatching her dress out of my hands, and then running off into the forest without a backward glance. I had been about to fuck her. Probably a good thing I didn’t, though. I was so wasted, I would have either come immediately or gone limp after three pumps.