“So good,” I told her, standing and reaching for the buttons of my pants. I didn’t bother to wipe her taste off my lips—I wanted it there, and I wanted her to taste it when I kissed her. I wanted that feeling of her tasting herself as I pushed inside of her, as if I were returning her own pleasure to her, returning her desire back with something added, a circle of completion coupled with something more.
A spiral, I realized as my cock fell free from my pants and I leaned in for a kiss. It wasn’t a circle at all, because the moment we came back to where we started, I wanted her more. I loved her more. And so there wasn’t completion, not really, not while we still had breath in our bodies. It was more like we brought each other higher or further, like each fuck and each kiss and each shared look was another twist of the screw that was slowly and painfully and wonderfully affixing our hearts to one another’s.
“Silas,” she said, her pupils dilated but one eyebrow arching up in impatience. Aroused but scornful: that was pretty much the essence of Molly O’Flaherty. “Please,” she added after a minute, although her tone still suggested that she was about to take matters into her own hands (as it were.) “Please fuck me.”
Well, what gentleman can say no to a lady?
Especially when she asks so politely?
I wrapped my fingers around the base of my cock, my other hand sliding around the corseted curve of her waist, and she was so wet, so ready, that I didn’t bother to guide myself properly to her pussy. Instead, I just shoved my hips forward as I yanked her into me, reaching up to clap my hand over her mouth right as she was about to cry out.
I felt that muffled cry against my palm, and fuck if I didn’t just want to do everything I could to feel it again. With one hand still on her waist and the other over her mouth, I moved closer, pushing deeper inside, shoving through that tight wet heat until I was buried.
And then I didn’t move.
“Look,” I told her roughly. “Look at you. Look at where you are. Look at what you’re letting me do to you.”
My good girl obeyed, glancing through the crack in the curtains behind us and then turning that gaze down to where we were joined, her stare turning hot and needy as she took in the way my hips pressed into her thighs, the way her clit pressed into the hard muscle above my dick. And suddenly I knew that I could make her come just like this, without moving, without any of those finger tricks or tongue tricks I’d become so famous in certain circles for. Just by filling her, just by making her breathe and squirm around my dick, by making her feel the hard thickness that wanted only her pussy and no one else’s. And of course, whispering in her ear about all the filthy things I wanted to do to her while I had my hand over her mouth.
“I’m going to fuck your ass next,” I told her. “I’m going to bury my cock so deep inside your ass that you’ll forget your own name. You’ll forget anything other than my dick.”
Her breathing hitched, her pussy clenching around me. I smiled wickedly.
“You’re so ready for me to fuck you, buttercup. Why is that? You like being fucked where anyone can see you? Or are you just so desperate for me that you’ll fuck me no matter where we are?”
I pulled out slowly and watched as I did, loving the way my dick came out wet and glistening. I knew she could feel every inch of the slide, the drag of my helmeted tip as it ran along her channel. And she watched the entire process greedily, hungrily, whimpering with relief against my hand when I oh-so-slowly pushed back inside her cunt.
She tried to grind closer, to buck her hips into me, but I slid my hand from her mouth to her neck and she froze. Her eyes flashed with fear, with lust, with something deeper and more profound than both, and I drank it in as I also drank in the feeling of her pussy tight around me, the feeling of her still trying to grind into me in small movements that she hoped I wouldn’t notice.
But I did notice.
“You better stay fucking still and fucking quiet,” I told her, and she opened her mouth to speak—in anger or in fear, I didn’t know—and then I finished my threat, “or I won’t let you come.”
&nbs
p; She shut her mouth.
“Good girl. You want to come, don’t you?”
She nodded frantically.
“Yeah? You like it when I make you come?”
Another nod. More squirming.
“I thought so.” I gripped her neck tighter. “Stay. Still.”
She finally stopped trying to grind against me, but she had to squeeze her eyes shut in concentration, and the sight of it was so adorable that I dropped a kiss on each closed eyelid. “My good girl,” I whispered. “Now I want you to listen to me. You feel my cock inside you? You feel how hard it is for you?”
“Yes,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “I feel it.”
“It’s stretching your little cunt now. It’s so deep inside of you that I can feel your womb. And all of it—that womb, that cunt—it belongs to me now, you understand? It belongs to me, and if I want to spread you wide and fuck you in front of everyone you know, I get to.”
“Yes,” she said, the word almost a moan. “You get to.”
And then her eyes fluttered open. “Oh, please, Silas,” she begged, and she’d gone from that petulant impatience to something more stripped and more primal. “Please make me come.”
Behind us, the band struck up a new song, a popular song, and I could hear the normal ballroom chatter ripple with approval and delight. The noises seemed to blend together—the glasses clinking and the shoes thudding on the floor and the voices sharing gossip and news and advice; all of it was occasionally punctuated with a laugh or a clink that was a little too close, which made it all the more thrilling. Any moment we could be discovered, and fuck if a part of me didn’t want that to happen.
