Page 88 of Scarred in Silence
I close my mouth around her nipple—warm, soft, pebbled. She gasps, thighs tightening around my ribs. I suck, swirl, nip until she whimpers..
Between her legs, she’s already wet—evidence of trust, of need that has nothing to do with fear. I drag my fingers through her slick, slow. She jerks, moans, tries to press up; I pin her hips like prey, savoring the tremor that races through her. Circles, strokes, soft suction until her thighs tremble.
“Lucien—”
I glance up. Her eyes are the brightest of blue. Her fingers twist the sheet. Her body begs for me.
“More,” she whispers.
I sink two fingers inside. She’s tight, hot; she clamps around me and cries out. I curl, find that spot, and stroke in rhythm. Her breath fractures—short, choked, building. I feel her crest coming: muscles coil, back bows, a sob of my name. She shatters, pulses around my fingers, mouth parted in a silent scream.
I don’t let her down gently. I bring my fingers to my mouth and lick her arousal from my fingers. She looks at me with a hungry gaze. My slick mouth crashes to hers, devouring her. She tastes herself on my tongue and moans.
“On your knees,” I order, voice gravel.
She rolls to her knees, face in pillows, ass lifted—submission that feels more like power. I fist my cock, stroke once, and line up. She glances over her shoulder, hair wild, cheeks flushed.
“I want to see you,” she says.
So I roll her onto her back, fingers trailing down her sternum. She reaches between us, not shy, slides me to her entrance, and I sink into her inch by inch until breath leaves us both. I fit like a blade in its sheath.
I grip her hip, thumb stroking bruises into bone, as I prop myselfup on my other arm. I rock slowly, testing angles, her pupils blown. Every ripple of heat squeezes guilt out of me; every gasp she spills pours absolution back. She braces her hands on my chest, nails digging into my flesh.
“Faster,” she begs. I set the pace—I glide in and out of her smoothly, effortlessly. Wet silk claws me, milks me. I thrust in our bodies, clapping, heartbeat drumming in my ears. Her breasts bounce; I catch one in my mouth, bite gently—her nails rake my chest.
Pressure builds—tight, electric, coiled behind my spine. She’s close too; I feel it in the way her walls flutter, in the broken whimpers.
“Touch yourself,” I rasp.
She slips fingers between us, rubs small, quick circles. Her head falls back, throat offered. I latch teeth to her pulse. She spasms, cries out, and clenches hard. Pleasure detonates behind my eyes; I spill inside her with a guttural groan, hips grinding as aftershocks wrack us both.
We collapse, tangled, hearts sprinting.
Minutes trickle. Our breathing sinks from ragged to quiet. Sweat cools. She lifts her head, hair plastered to her cheek.
“You’re shaking,” she whispers.
Adrenaline. Remorse. Need to confess. I roll, pulling her beside me, chest to chest. The tremor in my hands threatens to reveal secrets I can’t hide.
“What is it?” she asks.
I reach to the nightstand, retrieving the gun she placed there—compact, safety engaged. Her eyes widen.
“If I ever cross a line you can’t forgive,” I say, voice raw, “point this at me. Pull the trigger.”
Fear flickers across her face. “Lucien—”
“Promise me.”
Her throat works. She disengages the safety, just feeling the click, then re-engages. “I promise.”
Relief and terror flood me in equal measure. She sets the gun on her chest like a vow, fingers stroking the slide.
“Will you trust me the same?” she asks.
“Always.”
She places the pistol on the nightstand, kisses my knuckles, then rolls onto her side, back to me. I curl around her. For the first time in months, my heartbeat finds rhythm.
