Page 72 of Fire and Silk
It breaks.
My release crashes through me, a gushing flood that spills around his cock, messy and unstoppable. My body seizes, ass jerking under his hands as I scream, the sound raw and ragged, muffled by the mattress. My cunt pulses, milking him, and I collapse, chest flat, ass still raised, trembling in the aftershocks.
He grunts behind me, thrusts growing erratic, hips slamming harder, faster. His cock twitches, buried deep, and I feel it—the moment he breaks. His fingers dig into my hips, bruising, as he drives forward one last time, his body shaking as he empties himself inside me, hot and pulsing, filling my still-quivering cunt.
But he doesn’t stop. Not yet. His hand slides up my spine, gentle now, and he leans forward, lips brushing the back of my neck. “You think I’m done?” he murmurs, voice rough, teasing. His cock, still hard, shifts inside me, and I whimper, oversensitive, my body trembling at the promise of more.
He pulls out slowly, the drag of his cock against my swollen folds making me shudder. His hands grip my hips, flipping me onto my back, my bound wrists trapped beneath me. My legs fall open, thighs slick with our combined release, and he looms above me, eyes dark and predatory, sweat dripping from his brow.
“Look at you,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. His fingers trace the inside of my thigh, slipping through the mess we’ve made, and I gasp, hips twitching involuntarily. “So fucking perfect.”
His mouth descends, kissing a slow, deliberate path down my stomach, tongue dipping into the hollow of my navel before moving lower. My breath catches as his lips brush the sensitive skin above my clit, teasing, lingering. Then his tongue flicks out, tasting me—tasting us—and I arch off the bed, a broken moan spilling from my lips.
He doesn’t rush. His tongue laps at my folds, slow and thorough, savoring the slick heat, the evidence of what we’ve done. My hips buck, oversensitive, but he holds me down, hands firm on my thighs, spreading me wider as he devours me. His tongue circles my clit, teasing, then flattens against it, and I cry out, my bound hands straining against the lace.
The pressure builds again, impossibly fast, my body still raw from the last release. His fingers join his tongue, sliding inside me, curling just right, and I’m lost—moaning, writhing, my thighs trembling under his grip. He sucks my clit into his mouth, and the world shatters again, my release crashing over me in waves, my body arching, voice breaking into a scream that echoes in the room.
He rises, licking his lips, eyes locked on mine as he crawls up my body. His cock, still hard, brushes against my thigh, and I whimper, spent but wanting. He unties my wrists, the lace falling away, and my hands immediately find his face, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes of us—sweat, salt, and raw need.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against my lips, and I nod, breathless, my body still trembling as he presses himself against me, ready to start again.
Chapter Twelve - Lira
Dantès Estate, Private Wing
The sheets are cool against my skin.
I lie curled on my side, one leg tangled around his, the other stretched out against the ripple of silk. The scent of him lingers on my shoulder, earthy and faintly spiced, threaded into the spaces between my ribs like heat.
The blindfold rests between my fingers—thin black lace, soft and still warm. I trace the edge where it had brushed my cheeks, remembering the way it felt as he tied it on. Not tight. Never rough. Like it was a ribbon, not a restraint.
He lies beside me, his chest rising with each breath. The light from the ceiling slips across his torso, casting a pale shadow beneath his collarbone. He’s lean, built like a man who doesn’t chase strength but possesses it anyway. There’s a quiet kind of confidence in the way his body rests, like he’s never needed to prove himself.
My eyes roam over him.
And desire stirs again. Uninvited. Unavoidable.
He looks at me.
I don’t glance away.
Instead, I meet his gaze and whisper, “Thank you.”
His brow lifts just slightly. “For what?”
“For keeping your word,” I say. “You satisfied me.”
The corner of his mouth pulls upward—not a smirk, not quite a smile. Something in between. He shifts, turning toward me, his hand brushing against my hip.
“So, you accept my offer?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. My fingers still play with the lace as I stare at him. Something about his face—serene, expectant—makes me ache and recoil at the same time.
“I want to,” I say quietly. “But I’m a coward.”
He doesn’t blink. “No, you’re not.”
“I am,” I reply, a little more firmly. “I don’t know this world.”
