Page 126 of Masked Sins
My eyes roll back as I begin to unconsciously rut into her mouth.
“My tattoo isn’t for my mom. It’s for you. I have peonies around my house because they remind me of you. I send flowers before every performance. The day you got stung by a bee when you were sixteen and went into anaphylaxis was the scariest fucking day of my life. I listen to all of the music playlists you make, and all of my videos use the classical works I know you listen to a lot. I—fuck,” I groan, feeling my balls tighten as the base of my spine begins to tingle. “I’m really fucking close.”
“Tell me more,” Layla says, words muffled.
“Fuck, I?—”
She bites—gently.
I hiss and fist her hair as I begin to pump into her mouth in earnest.
“You have no idea how completely?—”
I groan, throwing my head back.
“Howfuckingcompletely you have me wrapped around your finger, Layla. You could want to slit my throat, and I’d happilyhand you the knife because you’d be the one doing it—God—fuck?—”
Layla moans as I fuck between her lips, my hips jerking unevenly. I see stars when she swallows her saliva, when her throat tightly squeezes me down farther.
She’s going to suck my soul out.
Her fingers continue to play with my balls, and I’m suddenly on the brink of coming. Every muscle is tensed, every pleasure receptor pulling taut in anticipation of exploding inside her mouth.
“I’m going to come,” I tell her, my voice hoarse. “Swallow every drop?—”
I shatter, and my knees nearly give out as my orgasm rocks through me. Layla whimpers as my cock pulses into the back of her throat. I’m gripping her hair for dear life, rocking my hips as waves of pleasure flow through me. She sucks and swallows everything with each spurt, extending my orgasm. My fingernails dig into her scalp as I hiss and moan, and my mouth drops open when her tongue slides along the base of my shaft.
Like she’s not wasting a single fucking drop.
My whole body convulses a couple of times and then Layla pulls off with one more long, audible swallow.
“I have questions,” she says slowly, placing her palms flat and face down on her thighs.
“Give me a minute,” I say, running a hand over my face. My whole body feels like it was just electrocuted, and everything tingles, like I’m about to black out. Quickly tucking myself away, I hold a hand out to help her up. “Color?”
“Green,” she says as she takes my hand. I help her into a standing position, grab her purse, and then I pull her behind me toward the desk.
“How did you feel about the scene?” I ask tentatively. “Where’s your head, Little Dancer?”
She gives me a long, contemplative look. “I feel good. I enjoyed it.”
“It wasn’t too much? Be honest with me.”
Her expression darkens, and one corner of her mouth tilts up. “It wasn’t too much. I can take it.”
She’s going to cause me to spontaneously combust.
“Turn around,” I order, and she does as I say. I drop to my knees and lift her dress, checking her over physically. She lets out a tiny gasp when I run a finger over one of the welted Rs. I’m filled with primal satisfaction at the thought of branding her as mine, of finally being able to use the paddle I bought for us. “Do you need anything? Maybe some soothing balm, or ice?”
“No, I’m okay,” she says softly. I drop her dress and stand, taking her hand. “Where are we going?”
I don’t release her as I pick the mask up and place it in the back pocket of my pants. “Back to my place. Don’t forget your shoes.”
“What—we’re leaving?” she asks, bending down to grab her shoes. Once she has them, I tug her out the back door and through the discreet hallway. “I thought we would stay and?—”
I stop walking and press her against the wall. It’s dark—meant only for performers and employees to come and go without having to walk back through the club after a scene. I built it to connect to all of the private rooms.
“The first time I see you come will be inmybed.”
