Page 11 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
I watch her finish, and then I’m kneeling over her face, flicking her jaw impatiently until she opens her mouth and gives me her tongue to use on my clit. But it turns out I’m too impatient to let her flutter and lick me there—after a minute, I slide my hands into those Goldilocks tresses and hold her right where I need her.
“Suck,” I say, and she obeys, sucking me until the orgasm detonates in my belly, until I cry out and buck against her mouth, trying to chase every last dirty second of this, determined to feel more, more, more.
But I’m not—I’m not chasing, I’m not determined, I’m none of that because I’m everything else. I’m smiling and near-laughing and surprised at how good it feels, and I’m relaxed, and I want more in the exciting, delicious way of knowing that I will get more anytime I like.
I’m happy. I’m giddy, a little girl surrounded by bright, gleaming sweets once again.
I wish I could say all my orgasms are like this, but no, no, it’s Delphine. Goddammit, why did it have to be Delphine?
It could be good.
It could be so good.
What if this is a gift?
I move down to the mattress again, and then roll us both so that I’m cradling Delphine from behind. Her bottom is round and inviting against my hips, and I let myself fantasize about fucking her like this, with my fingers and then maybe with a cock.
I’d get a pink one to match her pretty pink cunt. I’d make her come so hard with it.
“What do you think, pet?” I whisper into her hair. “Would you be mine?”
My post-orgasm high slowly twists into real nervousness. Real fear. What if she says no? What if she laughs in my face?
What if I’ve spent the last six weeks thinking the only barrier between me and Delphine was my own fearful reluctance—when really it’s that she doesn’t want me? Doesn’t want to be mine?
What if she hurts me right now, right here in this bed, before I even have the chance to make the hurting worth it?
It’s on the tip of my tongue to take it all back, to tell her I didn’t mean it, I was joking or teasing or lying—even though I rarely joke or tease or lie. In fact, I’ve already pulled in a breath and loosened my arms around her, and I’m just about to say, forget it, Delph, I was only having a laugh, when Delphine says, “Yes.”
Yes.
“Yes?” I am so surprised I can’t think of any other words. “Really? You want . . . to?”
Delphine squeezes my hand and brings it to her mouth, giving it a kiss. “I’ve only been waiting for you to ask.”
She doesn’t sound recriminating at all; her voice is still the cheerful, elegant drawl of a girl who grew up with horses and a second family home in the Cotswolds. But that’s almost worse, because I sometimes worry that as spoiled and privileged as Delphine is—and even with as patiently and warmly as Auden loved her—she still doesn’t seem to expect enough from the people around her. I’ve been acting like a boy at uni, showing up for a shag and then ducking away before she can ask for anything else, and she would have been well within her rights to call me out on it. She would’ve had every right to ask me why I’d fuck her here but not in London—and then every right to be utterly unimpressed when I told her that I was terrified of being hurt.
It’s an unimpressive reason. I’m not even impressed by it.
Delphine moves so that she’s on her back and I prop up on an elbow to look down at her as she traces the line of my collarbone. I’ve swatted other lovers on the arse for less, but somehow when she does it, the only thing I want to do is smile. I let her keep doing it, which is probably worrisome. The risk of being an indulgent Domme with her is very great, because who could scold a sweet little sub for doing this? For touching me so reverently but also with such confident affection, as if she has every right to do so?
But as soon as I’m warm all over from this small affection of Delphine’s, I’m resisting again. I want to hide my face or roll out of bed or act like the things she does don’t have the power to excite or terrify me.
Should I tell her? Should I crawl over her and bury my face in her neck and confess? Explain that I don’t trust my own feelings and I never have, and yet at the same time, I’ve become such an apostle of fear that even something as simple as having a girlfriend feels impossibly brave? Worse than brave? Stupid? Because it is stupid, from a logical standpoint. I would be better off alone, better off not letting Delphine inside my heart where she could rake her manicured nails along the tender insides of its chambers. I would be safer without her, safer without the complication of having a sub-girlfriend-kitten who was also objectively beautiful and glamorous and dripping with old and new money both. Safer without maybe . . . accidentally . . . possibly . . . catching feelings for a girl I’ve spent so many years hating.
But as Delphine smiles up at me—such a shy, happy, open smile—I know there’s no way I can sour the moment with all of that. It would be dumping my own shitty problems onto her lap, and it wouldn’t be fair to her. It wouldn’t be fair to this perfect moment, when I asked her to be mine and she said yes.
The reward for being strong isn’t just for me. It’s for everyone else around me too.
“Let’s get you something to eat,” I say instead, kissing her mouth and then rolling off the bed. My feelings I tuck back away where they belong, and instead I allow myself the small and safe satisfaction of knowing I’ll get to take Delphine home with me this week, I’ll get to show her off to the world. I’ll get to fall asleep with her hair all over me and her fingers fisted in my nightgown—and if the feelings come back, well…then at least they’ll come back when I can soothe myself with her body.
After I take down my hair and dress, I go to the guest room where she’s been staying and bring her back some clothes. Delight wavers through me as I pluck out knickers and a bra and shorts so tight I know I’ll be able to easily trace the V of her cunt while she’s wearing them. I get to dress her now, if I want. I get to feed her and wash her and then make her sit at my feet while I work.
Just like the first night we fucked, it feels a little bit like playing house, but I don’t care a
nymore. I want it. Even if it’s a trick, I still want it.
When I return, Delphine takes the clothes with a pout, because she still wants to cuddle in bed. I do too, I’m shocked to find, but after the night we had of drinking way too much and fucking like insatiable teenagers, I know she needs to eat something nourishing and drink plenty of water.
