Page 54 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
And I should have known. I should have trusted.
Nothing from Rebecca could ever feel bad.
Rebecca buries her head in my neck and feasts on my jaw, my throat, the skin between my neck and my shoulder, fucking me between the legs all the while, her clever fingers changing to slow, grinding strokes with twisting and a pressure against my front wall that has my eyelids fluttering. The heel of her palm grazes and grinds against my bundle of nerves as she goes, and she only stops kissing me in order to look down every few moments. Her expression is one of base, biological greed as she watches her hand moving in and out of me, as she plays with her submissive’s cunt like I know she’s been wanting to for weeks.
The orgasm, when it comes, kicks me in the chest and buckles my knees. The pleasure twists and twines around her fingers until it’s no longer pleasure at all, but something even better. Something necessary and perfect and human and also divine—something I feel in my soul as much as I feel in my sex—something that cuts through me like floss, cuts me right in two.
H
ard, hot contractions grab at my womb; curling waves of sweet sensation spiral out from my clit and cover me everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. I feel this climax in my thighs and belly and chest, I feel it in my tingling lips and in my seizing lungs and near-sightless eyes. I’m overpowered by it, consumed, and I don’t even realize I’ve crumpled to the floor until I hear the thud of Rebecca’s shoes being toed off, until I hear the impatient zipper of her cigarette pants, and she’s crawling over me, straddling me and finding my hand so she can use it how she wants. She’s so wet, so fucking wet—wet enough that I think she must have been thinking of this all day, for hours and hours. And it’s so unlike her to be like she is right now—no formality, no plan, no toys or ties. No, it’s only us, struggling for kisses as she rides my fingers, struggling for that indefinable more—more friction, more teeth, more taste, more of each other. Nothing is enough, not a kiss, not a buck of her hips, not a rub of my thumb over her clit, none of it is enough until we’ve tasted each other’s hearts.
That’s what’s different today, I think dizzily.
Rebecca’s heart is here. It’s beating outside her chest.
It’s seeking mine.
She comes like a woman being unwound from the outside in, she comes like someone on a clattering, rocketing roller coaster—laughing, gasping, terrified but alive. She comes like it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted in this life, and she milks each and every jolt, riding my hand until it cramps a little, until her body is finished and until her slick channel is completely and utterly still.
Until my hand is soaked and she can finally take a long, deep, very relaxed breath.
She slides off of me and tumbles to my side, looking more mussed and well-fucked than I’ve ever seen her. Her eyes slide closed and her long lashes rest on her cheeks like a doll’s. A smile plays at her mouth.
“I had such plans,” she murmurs, eyes still closed.
I arrange myself next to her, so our sides touch. The floor is hard and cool and we’re sticky and smell like sex, but I don’t care. My heart is flailing against my ribs. My stomach is floating somewhere in my chest.
She doesn’t love you, I remind myself.
But oh—oh how it feels like she might right now.
It feels so much like she might.
Rebecca’s eyes open and she gives me a fond, lazy grin—the kind of grin I’ve never seen her wear before. It opens her face completely, showing off that delicate jaw and those inky eyes, revealing a hidden dimple tucked into her cheek and displaying the mathematically perfect curve of her lower lip, the two subtle arches of her cupid’s bow. She has a mouth that would make a makeup artist weep with joy; she’s got the kind of bone structure that women chase for years with scalpels and contour kits.
And yet she’s never looked more beautiful to me than she does right now. Loose and smiling at the world like she’s about to roll it like a marble between her palms.
“I walked in and saw you in that outfit, and my cerebral cortex forgot how to cortex.”
“You like it?” I ask shyly. I don’t know why I need to hear it, why I crave anything more than seeing her turn into a greedy fiend for me, but I do.
Rebecca turns and props herself up on her elbow. She runs a hand over my half-exposed breasts, over the places where the straps meet over my belly, over my naked cunt. Even lying down on my back, the leather makes a topography of me. Rivers of leather, hills of silky, bisque body. Swells and valleys, all softness. A map of Delphine.
“You look like dessert,” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Like I want to eat you alive.” She ducks her head to nuzzle at my breast. I feel her mouth pull on my nipple, hot and wet, and my clit jumps in response. “God, I want to fuck you again in this. Like right away.”
A warmth nestles in my chest at her words; it surrounds my thudding, hopeful heart. Maybe the concierge was right: it’s that simple.
Although maybe that’s not right either. It’s not simple at all . . . but it’s worth it anyway.
And what more can I ask for than that?
Soothed and stirred by Rebecca’s touch, by her mouthing over my breast and toying with my cunt, I say, “I worship you even more like this.”
Rebecca lifts her head. The window is behind her, and her eyes are unreadable. Shadowed. “Like what?” she asks.
