Page 69 of Melodies that Bind
She breathes out, eyes shining with something like triumph, and I realize I’m right at the edge—any further, and I’ll lose it. “Don’t move,” I croak, but she’s already rocking in slow, shallow pulses, using my tip to tease her G-spot.
She moans, head thrown back, and rocks a little more, the tight heat of her squeezing me until I feel like I’m being turned inside out.
“Blake, don’t stop,” she rasps, her body trembling and alive. I brace one hand on her hip and the other between her thighs, working her clit with my thumb as she slides herself up and down on the first few inches of me. She’s getting bolder now, taking me a little deeper, letting her weight settle with every bounce. The sight nearly destroys me—her tits swinging, nipples pebble-hard, all of her shining with sweat and effort and hunger.
She sobs my name. She’s so close I can feel it in the frantic grip of her cunt, and I double down, rubbing her clit even harder. Watching her break is the most beautiful thing.
Her entire body goes rigid, pussy pulsing so tight around me I see stars. Her hands grip my shoulders as she grinds herself down on my cock. She comes, shuddering, her chest flushed and lips parted in a wild, beautiful cry.
I can’t stop myself from falling off that cliff with her. It’s never felt so good as right now. No blow job could ever compare.
As I work to catch my breath, I glance down, then back up at her, stunned… I’m actually inside her. We’re together, not in fantasy, not in some theoretical future, but here, now. She has my entire length inside her.
The thought has my cock pulsing. I’m not getting soft. No, somehow I’m even harder.
For a second, the only sound is our breath. Her hair veils her eyes, but I see her bite her lip, jaw taut with focus and want. I can’t believe I get to see her like this, that I get to be the one making her clutch at my shoulders, the one she trusts to break her open and keep her whole all at once.
“Give me one more, Bunny,” I rasp, not wanting the sensation of her taking me to end.
Raina smiles down on me, pure joy on her face. “You feel so good,” she whispers.
“So do you. I can’t believe this is finally happening,” I tell her.
“Believe it, Superman. I’m yours in every way.” Her statement makes my heart pound in my chest.
“And I’m yours.” I grip her hips and help encourage her to move.
She does, slowly at first, then faster, hips finding a rhythm that feels instinctive. Every slide is torture, every clench a threat. I hold her, let her control the pace, and watch as her pleasure builds again, cresting in a flush over her skin.
When she comes, it’s quieter this time, but equally intense. She collapses onto my chest, gasping, and the squeeze of herbody around me takes me with her. I follow, shuddering, spilling inside her in hot pulses that leave me wrung out and boneless.
After, we lay tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin. She nuzzles my neck, humming contentedly, and I want to bottle the sound, keep it forever.
“I like being greedy,” I confess, and she laughs, mouth pressed to my collarbone.
“Me too,” she whispers, and I know she means it.
The world outside is unchanged—Nash is probably making a mess of the kitchen, the movie is long over—but in this room, everything has shifted. We’re different now, and I never want to go back.
The first thing I hear is my phone screaming on the nightstand. It starts as a low buzz, then ramps up into a possessed jackhammer, vibrating so hard it nearly throws itself onto the floor. I pry one eye open, slapping at the screen, then freeze when I see the notifications.
The lockscreen is filled—over a hundred unread messages, twice as many social pings, a handful of missed calls with area codes I don’t recognize. At the top: an alert from the Media Nexus. The banner reads, “BREAKING: Pop Star Raina Lexington’s Secret Life EXPOSED in Shocking Photo Leak.” Beneath it, a thumbnail of me in a sweatshirt, my arm around Nash, both of us laughing, his lips grazing my hair.
My heart plummets into the pit of my stomach. I haven’t even sat up and I know, with a body-level certainty, that the worst-case scenario has detonated overnight, a story that feels all too familiar.
A photo of me and Nash is nothing; I’ve posted dozens on my own feeds. But the next notification loads before I can blink:“Rumors of Polyamorous Scandal Rock Survival Records Band. Is Raina Sleeping Her Way to a Comeback?”
I unlock the screen with trepidation. Every app is flooded: group DMs, Discord, TikTok, a hundred tags on Twitter, texts from both known and unknown contacts. I see my own face in every post, not the makeup-and-stage-lights version but the stripped-down, grinning, wild-eyed girl that only the band and the house have seen. Half of the photos are of me, Nash, and Blake, tangled together on the living room couch. Some are even worse—grainy shots through window glass, silhouettes of the guys in my bed at various times.
My hands go numb. My breath is so shallow I wonder if I’m even getting enough oxygen.
The headlines are relentless, each one worse than the last:
“Shocking Bedroom Revelations: Is Raina’s New Image Just for the Boys?”
“Inside the Survival House: Sordid Details Emerge”
“Raina Lexington—Pop Queen or Poly Cult Leader?”
