Page 91 of Violent Possession
I try to push myself deeper into his hand, but he traps my hip with the other, his fingers sinking into my skin like a handcuff.
“Alex...” My voice comes out hoarse, broken. “Stop fucking playing.”
He doesn’t answer. He leaves my cock and plants his hand on my stomach, flat and ownership-heavy.
He leans in and kisses me. It’s a slow, deep kiss that leaves me even more fucked up.
His mouth leaves mine and descends, tracing the line of my jaw with slow, open kisses. He goes down to my neck, and I expose it to him. He sucks the sensitive skin just above my collarbone, careful not to touch the dressing, and a groan escapes me without permission.
At the same time, his hands grab the hem of my shirt. With excruciating slowness, he pulls it up, exposing my abdomen, my chest, the map of scars that I am.
His mouth follows the path his hands opened. He kisses the knife scar on my rib, his tongue tracing the line of hardened tissue. The sensation is so unexpected it leaves me dizzy. No one has ever touched my scars with anything but disgust or morbid curiosity. He touches them as if they were part of the prize.
“Alexei,” I gasp, “What are you doing?”
He lifts his head for a second, his eyes dark and fixed on mine.
“Relax,” he whispers.
And then he goes back to his work. His mouth descends along the line of my muscles, each kiss bringing me closer to begging.
His warm breath descends to the edge of my pants, and I’m already arching against the mattress, hard and throbbing.
He reaches my hip, and his eyes meet mine. He places a hand on each of my knees, spreading my legs apart.
“Hands on the mattress,” he commands. “Don’t move.”
My body obeys on its own. I grip the sheet tightly.
And then he leans in, and the almighty Alexei Malakov’s mouth descends upon me.
It’s slow. First he runs his tongue along the shaft, slowly, sliding. Traces circles on the head. The wet warmth of his mouth surrounds me, and my hips arch on their own.
“Fuck, boss... your mouth’s gonna milk me dry…”
His hand holds the base firmly, and each time he squeezes, I feel the precise force telling me who’s in charge.
His mouth finally closes around the head. Wet, hot, sucking lightly, but enough to give me goosebumps all over. I hold the sheet—my last piece of sanity.
“You feel better than any pussy I’ve had,” I let out as the pressure builds deep in my belly, that familiar heat about to explode, and my body is already arching without permission.
His mouth squeezes me deeper, perfectly, and for a second I believe he’s going to let me come.
But no. He suddenly lets go, the suction disappears, and the shock pulls a hoarse, frustrated groan from me. His hand doesn’t let go, on the contrary: it closes even tighter at the base, his long fingers squeezing to hold everything inside. I throb there, one step from the abyss, trapped in his fist, which keeps me in this delicious hell. His gaze rises to mine, and the calm I find in it only makes everything worse.
“Sadistic motherfucker,” I gasp, more as a compliment than an insult.
He returns. His mouth closes again, sucking harder now, circling and pressing his tongue.
I moan loudly, his hand holding my base firmly while his mouth devours me. The sensation is maddening, each suck making me lose more control, and my gaze can’t leave him, his hands, his mouth. Fuck, his mouth.
The suction increases, his tongue presses me in such a perfect way that I feel the orgasm rise violently, ready to explode.
And again, he lets go.
I tremble all over, unable to even breathe.
“Boss… fuck, boss… let me come…” My voice is broken, a request, a plea.
