Page 68 of The Bastard's Lily
"Tell me what you want, Calla," he says roughly.
"I want your mouth on me," I whisper, my voice barely audible even in the quiet room. "Please."
He makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl. "Louder. Tell me exactly what you want."
Heat floods my face, but the hunger in his eyes gives me courage. "I want you to taste me," I say, voice stronger now. "I want your tongue inside me."
"Good girl," he praises, and the words send a thrill through me.
His fingers part me first, thumbs spreading me open as he looks his fill. I resist the urge to squirm under his intense scrutiny. Then his mouth is on me, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping through my folds in one long, deliberate stroke that makes my back arch off the table.
"Fuck," I gasp, one hand flying to his hair, gripping the strands between my fingers.
He hums against me; the vibration sends shocks of pleasure up my spine. His hands grip my thighs, keeping them spread wide as he works me with his mouth. Each stroke of his tongue is precise, deliberate—he hasn't forgotten a single thing that drives me crazy.
I gasp as waves of pleasure crash through me, my body arching off the table. His tongue keeps working, relentless, drawing out my climax until I'm trembling and incoherent. Just when I thinkI can't take any more, he rises to his feet, his hand immediately finding my throat.
"Look at me," he commands, fingers tightening just enough to make my pulse thunder against his palm.
I force my eyes open, meeting his dark gaze as he looms over me. His mouth is wet with me, his eyes wild with hunger. He slides two fingers inside me without warning, making me cry out from the oversensitivity.
"That's one," he growls, curling his fingers in a way that makes my vision blur. "But I'm not done with you yet. Give me another."
His grip on my throat tightens slightly as his fingers work inside me, thumb circling my clit with devastating precision. I'm still sensitive from the first orgasm; every touch is almost too much to bear.
"You're gonna come again for me," he demands, voice rough and dirty in my ear. "Gonna squeeze those pretty little muscles around my fingers until you're begging me to stop.”
"I—oh god—" I can barely form words as the pressure builds again, his fingers working magic inside me, his grip on my throat sending me spiraling toward the edge. My thighs tremble, muscles tightening as another orgasm crashes through me, more intense than the first. I cry out his name, my body convulsing around his fingers.
"That's it," he growls, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "Fucking perfect."
Before I can catch my breath, he's pulling me up, spinning me around. "Hands on the table," he orders, his palm pressing between my shoulder blades until I'm bent over, palms flat against the cool surface.
Papers crinkle beneath my hands. The edge of the table digs into my hips as he kicks my feet apart, positioning me how he wants me. My heart hammers in anticipation.
"Look at you," he says, his voice dark honey and gravel. "Spread out for me like a fucking feast."
His hand slides up my spine, then tangles in my hair, pulling just enough to arch my back further.
I feel him pressing against me, hot and hard. My breath catches as he pushes inside in one smooth thrust, filling me completely. I grip the table harder, a moan tearing from my throat as he seats himself fully.
"Fuck, you're tight," he growls, his fingers digging into my hips. "Still fit me like you were made for this cock."
He pulls back slowly, then slams forward again, the force of it sending papers flying off the table. I cry out, my body already sensitive from his mouth and fingers.
"You like that?" His voice is rough against my ear as he establishes a punishing rhythm. "Like feeling me stretch this pretty pussy?"
"Yes," I gasp, pushing back against him. "God, yes."
He smacks my ass hard enough to sting, the sound echoing in the room. "Tell me how much you want it," he demands. "Let me hear those dirty thoughts you've been keeping locked up."
I hesitate, self-consciousness washing over me despite everything we've done. He slows his pace deliberately, making me whimper in frustration.
"Come on,Calla," he coaxes. "Tell me what you want." His lips brush against my ear. His voice drops an octave lower, turning into that sweet, gravelly rumble that makes my insides clench. "Tell me all the filthy things you've thought about while we were apart."
I swallow hard, my cheeks burning. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His hips slow to an agonizing pace, barely moving inside me. "Give me your words, Calla. I want to hear what that pretty mouth can say."
