Page 236 of Swallow Your Sorries

And he doesn’t want to miss mine, because every time his eyes threaten to close, he widens them and locks them on mine. Still, they’re unfocused, glazed with lust.

“It’s like your cunt doesn’t want to let go of me.”

He’s right, because I’m gripping him tighter with each thrust, desperate to hold on. Desperate to work him deeper.

“So fucking tight.”

When he ploughs into me one final time, the head of his cock touches the deepest part of me and the foreign sensation causes such an intense eruption within me that I instinctively try to get away from his onslaught by crawling up the bed.

“Not a chance in hell,” he rasps, flipping me over onto my back, and pushing my knees hard into my tits as he pins me back down.

“Ohhh!”

I thought he couldn’t get any deeper, but I was wrong.

Pleasure and pain explode beneath my eyelids and in my pussy as he slides back into me. As he drives his cock as deep as it’ll go until I’m sure it’ll split me into two because I’m so full. Too full.

Hot spurts of cum blast against my walls as he pumps into me mercilessly, and I greedily contract around him. The tightness coiling in my core, comes undone with each blast until I’m orgasming all over again.

Full. So full.

He stays inside of me as we tremble with aftershocks, kissing me until I can finally kiss him back and not just moan into his mouth.

When he finally pulls out, I immediately feel his fingers at my gushing entrance. His touch is feather light but I still flinch as he slips two fingers inside before bringing his bloody cum coated fingers to my lips. Blood. There’s so much blood but it doesn’t revolt me as he uses our mess to part my lips and massage my tongue as I suck on them, his eyes still locked on mine. Seconds later he does it again but this time he licks them himself. Again and again, but each time he seems hungrier until finally he slides down my belly and settles between my legs to drink straight from the source.

I sink my fingers into his hair, holding him close until he’s satisfied from feasting on me. On us.

Until my slick thighs and throbbing pussy are clean.

Until he brings me his cum coated tongue for me to suck on like a pacifier until both our breathing returns to normal and we fall into each other’s arms.

There’s a deep level of contentment I’ve never felt before humming through me and I feel it in Gant too. In his relaxed muscles, that are usually tense. In his harsh features that are so relaxed now, they remind me of the younger Gant from two years ago. The one who hadn’t been so traumatised yet.

“I know you love me,” he says, nuzzling against my neck and into my hair when I’m sure hours have passed.

“Do you?” I ask, but I can’t refute it. There are different kinds of love, even kinds that don’t make sense to our brains but make perfect sense in our hearts.

“I know, because you sacrificed for me. You bled for me.”

I say nothing. Because he’s right.

“I…”

I love Gant fucking Aucliar.

“I love you too, dove,” he says, stroking a thumb over my swollen lips as if I’d uttered the words. “The past. The games. That indescribable rage of betrayal I couldn’t shake months ago. None of it matters anymore. All that matters is that you’re mine. And that you’ve chosen to be mine.”

His.

All his.

Elle

For one moment, it’s hard to tell if I’m looking at Beaulieu’s car park or a luxury car show that’s come to town for the weekend. Each spot holds a car shinier, grander, and more expensive than the last and just when I think I’ve chosen a favourite, ten more choices come rolling lazily through the gate in glimmering ivory, dark chocolate, and deep cranberry. I swear the colours themselves look like they’re from an entirely different era, and then I realise with a rush of stupidity that they are. The manufacturers don’t make them anymore. These are the colours great-grandparents grew up with. Colours I could barely identify.

I jump back onto the sidewalk as a creamy olive (?) convertible roadster rolls up to Beaulieu’s front steps and nearly clips off my toes before swinging into the nearest empty spot. Immediately my ribs begin to hurt as I tense up, and my fingers fly to the little three-pointed, indented scar hidden beneath my coat and leotard. Every time I cross a road, I swear it flares up, a tingling reminder that I could almost not be here.

Just like Madame.

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