The water begins to linger, the tide rising higher and higher with each passing second. Pushing to my knees, I pump my finger in and out of her, watching as another wave comes over top of her.
She tries to sit up, but I slam my mouth against hers, kissing her as I ease her back into the sand.
“Come for me, Isa,” I say against her lips, before another wave mutes out the world. This one doesn’t retreat, and the burn of her nails digging into my skin, muscles stiff and trembling, is her body finally edging toward climax.
I can feel it culminating inside of her, as she squirms less and trembles more, as if saving her oxygen for the big finale.
She jolts up on a gasp and tips her head back, exhaling the most tortured moan I’ve ever heard. A cross between pleasure and agony while she seizes and twitches. Tiny contractions pulse around my fingers still lodged inside of her. Deep heaving breaths saw in and out of her, while the waves knock her body around. When her eyes find mine, there’s something new swirling in their depths.
Something darker.
Sexier.
I want to taste it on her lips like an addict watching someone get high for the first time.
With a handful of her hair in my fist, I yank her head back and seize her mouth, eating the drunken euphoria of her climax.
She climbs onto my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck, as she kisses me with the ferocity of a wild animal. “What happened to me?”
“La petite mort.”
“What does that mean?” The satisfied purr of her voice only stokes my need for release, like hot coals on the verge of igniting.
“Death,” I say, shoving a hand down into the pocket of my pants, from where I fish out a condom. I nudge her up off my lap just enough to undo my pants and spring my cock free. Tearing the condom from its packet, I slide it down my shaft and line my tip to her entrance. Back against the wet sand, I scoot the two of us away from the rising tide, closer to the warmth of the crackling fire, and she impales herself down my length. Palms to her hips, I lower her onto my eager dick, and the sound of her moan coils around my senses like a poisonous vapor. Won’t take much after watching her climax, and holding her steady, I stare up at her flawless face, while hammering my hips into her tight little body.
This girl has corrupted every fiber of my being, and no one will ever be good enough after her. No one will ever compare to the flesh and blood fantasy before me. She’s mine.
The breath of new life. The steady pulse in my veins. The long-awaited beat of a heart that’s been dead too long.
My kindred flame.
Every muscle in my body is a wire ready to snap, as this girl works me to climax. I want to come so fucking bad, but I wait. I wait for her, because in the last two days, I’ve learned one thing about Isa Quinn: there is nothing more beautiful in the world than watching her shatter. A sight I could eat for breakfast every day.
The waves climb higher, splashing around us in white, salty spray.
Her moans escalate, penetrating down to my bones, and I let out a groan, my stomach tight with excitement, as her juices wet my cock on every withdrawal. She pants through her nose, the first flicker of climax breaking across her face.
Brows winged up, she digs her nails into my chest, clenching her jaw.
“Come on, baby.” I guide her hips along the length of my cock, driving deep each time she comes down on me.
She cries out, back stiff, muscles trembling, and the sound of her long, tortured moan is music to my ears.
I draw my dick out of her, and she scrambles off of me, as I tear away the condom and stroke myself to finish. White ribbons of cum spring from my tip, captured by her mouth.
“Ah, fuck.” I stare down my body, watching her lap every drop, as bullets of pleasure shoot through my muscles, bathing them in a warm, tingly aftermath. Panting hard to catch my breath, I feel her tongue dance over my stomach, lapping up the fallen drops of my release.
When she lifts her head, I want to frame her face that wears the shine of my cum glistening across her mouth.
Ravishing.
The day I learned to climax while holding my breath, I thought I’d touched heaven, while traipsing the line between life and death.
It turns out, heaven is a nineteen-year-old girl who sleeps with a pocket knife under her pillow.
And I’m the selfish bastard who intends to keep her all to myself.
Chapter 51
Isadora
Another week seems to fly by, and somehow it’s Friday again. Each day is spent stealing glances of Lucian, shy smiles, secret touches, and hiding away from the other staff to make out in the shadows. We’re like children, sneaking around the manor, as if they don’t already know what’s going on.
Every night, Lucian comes to me and takes me for hours, in positions I’ve never imagined, before he carries me to the bathroom to clean me up. Most mornings, he’s gone before I wake.
I’ve not yet seen his bed, which I suspect is his way of ensuring that I remember what this is between us, and I do. But I want more, and I hate that about all of this. I hate that his touch lingers for far longer than I care to admit, and that the sound of his voice consistently leaves my panties a soaked mess, as if I’ve somehow been primed and trained to respond to it that way. The dreams of him, in his absence, have grown more vivid, darker than before, and I’ve begun to fear them less. Just as the sounds and shadows in my room at night no longer startle me awake.
My cravings have also intensified.
This morning, during my shower, I let the water from the spigot run over my face, as I touched myself, aroused by the lack of breath. The memory of Lucian’s riveted expression in the cave that night, sparkling with some kindred understanding, swirled inside my head while the evidence of my climax ran down my leg.
I haven’t decided yet, whether I’ll go home for the weekend, or spend it at the manor, as Lucian insisted. Aside from the brief visit to the bar, I haven’t seen much of Aunt Midge. But maybe I need a couple days away from him. To distance myself from this growing obsession that’s sure to destroy what we’ve established between us.
I don’t know what’s happened to me in the last week, but since that night in the cave, my preoccupations with the master of this manor have brought me to a heightened need that scares me a little. As if he’s the only one who could possibly understand my sudden fascination with this newfound thrill.
Outside, a black object flutters by my window, breaking my thoughts. It hobbles and flits about the sill on the other side, but the black wings are unmistakable. A raven, or crow. When it finally settles, it tips its head, and I stare down at the bird with the missing eyeball. Perhaps the one I saw the first day, while riding with Aunt Midge. The strange bird caws and flaps its wings again, and in seconds, it takes flight, smacking into the glass.
My muscles flinch, and I step back, frowning. The bird hits the window again. And again. As if it’s trying to come inside, not aware of the barrier there. Its squawks grow louder, and its determination to come through has me backing farther into the room, until the door on the opposite side hits my spine. The obnoxious cawing continues, and I slip out of my bedroom, deciding to head to Laura’s room early today. A tremor hums beneath my skin as I glance back to my room, to be sure it didn’t break through, before shuffling down the hallway to the first floor.