Page 76 of Deliria

To claim her as mine.

My hands explore her body, tracing the curves and dips, the softness and the strength. She’s a fucking masterpiece, a symphony of silk and steel. I want to learn every inch of her, every secret, every scar. I want to know her, all of her, inside and out.

Her hands are on me too, tentative at first, then they grow bolder. She traces the lines of my muscles, the planes of my chest, the ridges of my abs. Her touch sets my skin on fire, sending electricity coursing through my veins.

I’m rock hard, aching for her, and it takes everything I have to hold back.

I slip my hand under her shirt, feeling the smooth warmth of her skin. She arches into my touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. I cup her breast, my thumb brushing over her nipple, feeling it harden under my touch.

She gasps, her body writhing beneath me, her hips grinding against mine. She’s suddenly so fucking desperate.

“Rafe,” she whispers, her voice a plea, a demand. “Please...”

I smile, kissing her again as I slip my hand under the band of her sweatpants, my fingers finding her hot and so damned wet. She moans into my mouth, her body bucking against my hand as I stroke her, tease her, make her fucking mine.

I break the kiss, trailing my lips down her neck, her collarbone, her chest.

And I feel it, the exact moment, as I slide two fingers deep into her, I feel the way she reacts. The way her legs tighten, the way her body clenches.

“Fuck,” I groan, unable to keep the word in.

She’s so damn perfect. So damned tempting. How I’ve managed to resist her until now, God only knows.

I push the t-shirt up, taking one of her perfect nipples into my mouth. She cries out, her fingers tangling in my hair, holding me to her as I suck, as I lick, as I bite.

I want to fucking consume her, to devour her whole.

I move to her other breast, giving it the same treatment. Worshipping every inch.

She’s writhing beneath me, her body on fire, her hips grinding against my hand as she silently begs for more, more, more. I can feel her getting close, can feel her body tightening, her breath coming in quick, desperate gasps that sound like the very chorus of heaven.

“That’s it, Little Bird,” I murmur against her skin. “Let go. Let me see you come.”

And she does.

She throws her head back, her body convulsing, her cunt clenching around my fingers as she comes hard and fast.

I watch her, utterly entranced, my cock throbbing with the need to be inside her. But I let her ride out her orgasm, let her feel every moment of this pleasure, because God knows she needs it.

When she comes down, her body relaxing, her breath evening out, I slip my fingers out of her. She looks up at me, her eyes filled with a soft, satisfied glow and though I know it might trigger her, I can’t resist the voice in my own head as I raise them up, as I lick them clean.

Christ, she’s delicious. A perfect mix of sweet and salt.

I hold her gaze as I do it, as I claim this part of her. There’s still a spark of desire there, a need that matches my own.

I know I should check, should give her one last out, one last chance to change her mind. But I’m too far gone now, too damned selfish to give a fuck anymore. I slip her sweatpants down, my hands caressing her thighs, her calves, her ankles as I remove them. She helps me, lifting her hips, her legs, her feet.

Then she’s bare before me, her body open, trusting, and all mine.

For a moment I just stare at her, taking in every delicious bit. I’ve fucked enough girls to be more than confident around a woman’s body and yet Scarlett, there’s something about hers, something that beckons me, beguiles me, bewitches me.

It takes all I have not to react to the evidence of abuse etched across her body like a map. All the bruising and trauma is there in stark contrast with her beautiful, delicate skin.

I stand up, my eyes never leaving hers as I undress. I see her gaze flicker down my body, see her eyes widen as she takes in the size of me and then they settle on that scar, that permanent mark seared into my chest.

“What is that?” She asks, reaching forward, but I’m quick to catch her hand, to stop her. The movement seems to shatter the fragile foundation we’ve built for ourselves, but it is what it is.

“It doesn’t matter.” I murmur, “It’s not important.”

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