Page 94 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“No. Or rather, not only about the door.” He finds my wrists with his hands, circling them and pulling them between us.
His eyes are on where his thumbs and middle fingers meet over my pulse points. He says, in a voice barely audible over the rain, “I’ve been thinking since we left your father’s house. About everything. About what happened to your mother. What happened to Jennifer Martinez and everyone else who got close to him. And what if I’m like that too? What if I’m like him?”
There’s no question whom he means. “You’re not,” I tell him. “I promise, you’re not.”
“But look at what I do to you,” he whispers. He tightens his grip on my wrists until the pain flickers up my arms.
“You know I like it,” I say.
“I don’t mean the kink, Proserpina.”
Suddenly I’m on my back with him over me, my wrists pinned to the floor on either side of my head. My skirt has fallen up to expose my sex, and it gives a wet kick at our position. At having my Sir over me and restraining me, at having his tormented eyes on mine and his jaw tight with something we only barely have the words for.
“I mean this,” he says. “I mean that when I look at you, the first word I think is not your name, it’s ‘mine.’ When I say ‘I love you,’ I mean ‘you’re mine.’ When I hold you down, when I tie you up, when I fuck you, that is what my body is telling yours: mine, mine, mine.”
I’m arching underneath him—not in distress, but in need. “I am yours,” I whisper back.
“What if you shouldn’t be?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Auden. When I see you, I need you, when I’m with you, I kneel. When you’re touching me, I’m whole, and I don’t care how fucked up it is, I don’t care if it’s wrong, if it’s twisted, if we’re all kinds of broken, this is what I want. You are what I want.”
Auden’s eyes move over my squirming form, leaving heat in their wake. He stares at my pussy for a minute. “Open your legs,” he says.
I obey immediately, because they belong to him, just as my cunt does, just as my entire body does.
He lets go of a wrist and uses one hand to open his pants. But he doesn’t go inside me, no matter how much I writhe and beg for him too. Instead, he rubs his crown against me, up and down my wet seam, denying us.
“This is what you want?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir.”
He ducks his head to bite the exposed upper curve of my breast, hard enough to make me cry out. “And this?”
“Yes.”
He moves up, releases my wrist. I’m flipped to my stomach, and before I can even catch my breath, he’s on top of me again, this time pushing inside with a hard thrust that drives the breath right out of my body.
“And this?” he asks, shoving all the way in. The fit is so tight like this, snug and a little bit painful and a whole lot wonderful. I press my face into the floor and breathe as pleasure and pain sparkle up from my cunt to light my blood on fire.
“This too? You truly want to be loved like this?”
“You know I do,” I whisper into the floor. “Please . . . ”
“Please what?”
he asks. He pushes my legs together to make it tighter for him, planting his knees on the outside of my own. “You want to come?”
“Yes, Sir,” I gasp. Each thrust feels like it’s going into my belly, into my chest. I could come just like this, even without direct pressure on my clit, if only he’d keep going—
He stops.
“Auden, no,” I beg as he slides out. “Please, don’t—”
“But you wanted it, hmm?” He leans down to bite the back of my neck, and I shudder underneath him. “You wanted me?”
“Please . . . ”
I feel his hand on his erection, shuttling slowly up and down his length. He’s fucking his hand instead of me.
