Page 40 of Blood Debt
Shamefully, I yield. My lips move with his, my tongue dancing in time to his. Each breath I take is full of him—his scent, his taste, his heat. My skin burns where he touches. The kiss becomes a storm, messy and consuming, and I’m drowning in it, in him.
I moan into it, my sounds swallowed up by his kiss, muffled and messy as he presses harder between my thighs.
Then I feel it—his fingers sliding through my soaked folds, spreading me apart. He finds my entrance without hesitation and pushes two fingers inside me, just like that.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my voice catching.
They’re thick, rough, and warm. He doesn’t ease in—he drives them deep, until his knuckles press against my pussy lips and the stretch has me whimpering into his mouth. I can feel everything: the way his fingers curl upward, scraping against that spongy spot inside me. The way his rings drag along my inner walls, metal cold against heat.
He’s slow at first, full thrusts that make my pussy pulse and clench around him. His thumb stays tight against my clit, rubbing little circles that have my thighs twitching. I arch against him, my back lifting from the bed.
"You're so fucking wet," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
My cheeks burn. I shake my head even as my hips roll up into his hand. I hate how much I’m reacting—how fast I’m unraveling.
His fingers curl again and hit that spot inside me that makes my eyes roll back.
Then he starts to fuck me with his fingers for real. They thrust in and out of me fast and hard, filling me over and over, the squelch of my pussy obscene in the silence between our moans. His wrist flexes with each pump, the pads of his fingers grinding deep inside, rubbing that aching spot again and again.
I can’t stop the way my pussy squeezes around him, clenching tighter with every stroke. The pressure is unbearable. My clit throbs under his thumb. He keeps rubbing it in circles.
Every inch of me is on fire.
I cry out, my hips jerking. My thighs are shaking now. My body is completely at his mercy, fucked open by just his hand.
His fingers move faster, pistoning into my pussy, the heel of his palm grinding hard against my clit now. I’m soaked, dripping around him, the sheets damp under my ass. The pressure builds so fast. I just gasp, moan, tremble.
Then he kisses me again, tongue sweeping into my mouth as if he wants to fuck that too.
I clutch his shoulders, nails digging in. My legs shake.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, the words barely formed.
It’s too much.
He curves his fingers just right, and I come undone.
My pussy clenches hard around him, spasming as the orgasm rips through me. I cry out into his mouth, body arching, thighs trembling, every nerve lit up and buzzing under his touch. I can feel myself pulsing around his fingers.
He slows but keeps his fingers moving inside me, coaxing every last wave out of me until I’m twitching from overstimulation, lips parted, breath ragged.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and hungry.
The door slams open.
“Don—”
A deep voice slices into the dark like a blade.
Cristofano freezes, lips barely an inch from mine, his weight heavy against my chest, one knee on the mattressbetween my thighs. His breath is warm. His shirt half-unbuttoned, mine tugged off one shoulder.
My eyes widen. Panic surges.
I shove him—hard.
His body rolls sideways, sluggish from drink, landing with a thud on the bed. He groans but doesn’t resist.
I scramble up. My knees knock into the sheets, and I nearly trip trying to untangle my skirt.
