Page 33 of The Worst Kind of Promise
He kisses me after quenching his thirst, and the salty taste of my own arousal on my tongue has blinding sparks of electricity hurtling through my veins. My orgasm is so close. I want—need—to feel that release. I need it more than I need my next breath of air.
“Do you want to drench my fingers, Princess? Do you want me to make you come so hard you can’t see straight?” Kit asks, that teasing tone of his condescending in a way that makes my belly clench.
His fingers have stopped their torturous circles, their girth alone enough pressure to get me there if I move with precision. Even with half-lidded eyes, I can tell that me getting off is gettinghimoff. His painfully erect dick is practically bursting at the seams, and pre-cum stains his crotch, calling my attention to the not-so-discreet flex of his upper muscles.
“Yes, Kit,” I cry out.
“Fuck me.” He throws his head back and his eyes fall closed, his throat working upon my admission. I bask in his vulnerability, not sure when I’ll see it again, trying to commit it to memory. When he comes to, he reapplies his mask and challenges me. “Beg for it.”
That pulse in my vagina hasn’t stopped as fire tumbleweeds through every inch of me, scorching me from the inside out. “What?”
“Beg for it,” he demands again, this time withdrawing his fingers to drive the point home.
I internally scream at the loss of contact, the loss of fullness. I don’t beg. I’m above begging. But am I? Because Kit’s fingers felt like heaven inside me. I need him. More. “Please…” My voice is quiet, so quiet the sound of a pin dropping would be louder.
His head drops, his dark hair cascading down to frame his face. “You know that’s not what I want.”
“Please, Kit. Please fuck me with your fingers,” I beg, surprised at how loud my voice is now, how desperate.
“There she is. There’s my girl.” His fingers spear back inside me, determined to complete their mission, curving at an angle right near my G-spot. He’s taunting me, torturing me, seeing how far he can leave me teetering on the edge before I hit my breaking point.
My walls spasm around him, pleading for more. I’d blush at my body’s reaction if I wasn’t so distracted.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. Sucks, teases with his teeth, soothes the newly formed bite. “God, I love your fucking pussy. So pretty, so pink, so greedy for my fingers. You’ve been such a good girl, Princess. How about I give you something bigger to work with?”
My eyes widen at the realization. His huge cock. His huge cock that will most definitely split me in half.
“Kit…”
His fingers stall inside me, and I know he’ll still make me come with whichever appendage of his I choose. “Only if you consent, Faye.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not thinking about the consequences of my actions. I’m leading with my heart instead of my head. “It’s not that. You’re so…”
“I’ll be gentle,” he replies. “You set the pace.”
Stop thinking, Faye. This is what you’ve always wanted.
Am I ready for this? What if I freak out on him?
Leap. He’ll catch you. You know he will.
I don’t want all my sexual experiences to be synonymous with the rape. I want to be able to enjoy sex again. I want to be able to lose myself in someone without the fear that they might not give that part of me back. I want to lose myself in Kit.
I want his hands to be the ones I remember on my body.
I only manage to nod because words elude me. That challenging tilt of his head, along with the devilish glint in his eyes, are long gone. All that remains is softness, understanding, and a smile that I always come home to.
Pants and underwear abandoned, he picks me up and carries me effortlessly to the bedroom. He gently sets me down on the mattress, hands supporting the small of my back, his tactile touch drawing a guttural groan from deep within my throat. The polarizing difference of my soft body against his hard one makes me lightheaded. Once I’m situated, he rolls his pants down, letting his aching cock spring free. It’s as long and thick as I’ve imagined it—red from neglect, littered with veins, the head soaked with a bead of pre-cum—accompanied by two large, dangling balls smattered with wiry hair. I salivate just looking at his dick, wanting to know how it feels when it hits the back of my throat.
When his shirt comes off, I’m met by the billboard-worthy sight of Kit Langley. A razor-sharp jawline and cheekbones that could cut me, inked sleeves on bronze skin that tell stories of the past, an acreage of abs, burgeoning biceps, and thighs that flaunt a strict workout regime. His long, dark lashes match the fullness of his finger-swept hair, the bridge of his nose slightly crooked from a few too many breaks, plump, collagen lips bordering prominent incisors and perfect, straight teeth. He’s so handsome it physically pains me.
I must’ve been gawking for at least a good minute, because judging by the impatient curl of his lip, I need to take my own shirt off before he comes over and rips it down the middle.
The second I’m naked, he positions himself over me, and that night comes flashing back to me. The painful way he held my face against the mattress, the body-rocking thrusts, the tears spilling down my cheeks when he took me harder.
I petrify, my mental and physical brakes engaging. In the moment, I forget that I’m with Kit. I’m transported back to that grungy hotel mattress, waiting for the pain to seize me.
“Hey, hey. We don’t have to go any farther,” Kit whispers, rearing back from me to give me space.
