I wanted his cock inside me, and I wanted it now.
He grazed his teeth over my lower lip, breaking the kiss. As if he’d heard my inner thoughts—or my moans against his tongue—he pulled back and ripped open the condom. My entire body jolted into high alert, tingling with anticipation.
My legs drifted shut as he grabbed his cock at the base and rolled the condom on in one smooth motion. His gaze traveled hotly from his cock to me, and he knelt with one leg on the bed reaching for my thong. The lace tickled as he peeled it down my legs and over my heels, dropping it on the floor.
“Open your legs,” he demanded hoarsely.
I clenched them together and drew in a deep breath.
“Dahlia.”
That sent a jolt of desire straight down my spine.
“Open. Your. Legs.”
I clenched them even tighter.
Damien gripped my knees and shoved my legs open, unwilling to wait for me any longer. My muscles were still tight, so he ran his hands up the insides of my thighs, digging his fingertips into me, applying enough pressure that I couldn’t move against him.
Then, he dipped his head and ran his tongue along my pussy, pausing at my clit and closing his lips around it. He sucked, pulsing his tongue against the taut bundle of nerves.
I gasped, grabbing the sheets as an uncontrollable burn of pleasure flushed through me.
He moved, laughing breathlessly, and covered my body with his. His hand between us, he guided the head of his cock to my pussy and lightly pushed himself inside me. He eased in, inch by inch, my muscles clenching and hugging his hardness. Heat washed over me. I cupped the back of his neck and his shoulder, closing my eyes.
Slowly, he moved, pulling out almost entirely before he buried himself back inside me.
The slowness didn’t last long. I wrapped my legs around his waist and crossed my ankles, basically curling myself around him as he found a rhythm. He picked up speed, our skin slapping together as he fucked me harder, deeper, faster.
My heart pounded. Sweat slicked across my body as he moved. I grasped and grabbed, digging my fingers into his back and his shoulders, scratching at his neck, arching my body and taking all of him.
He paused, sitting up. His fingers were hot against my legs as he unwound them from his waist, and the question of what he was doing died on my tongue as he slid off the bed, yanked me by my thighs to the edge, and guided himself inside me again. At the apex of my thighs, he splayed his fingers, holding my legs wide open.
If I thought he was fucking me hard a moment ago, I was wrong.
This was hard.
It was rough. Relentless. Greedy. Each thrust of his hips slapped his skin against mine and forced pleasure onto me. His grip meant I could do nothing but lie there and take it. Arch my back and writhe as the heat of an impending orgasm swamped me, tickling my skin, tugging at my senses, drying out my throat as moans escaped my parted lips.
My fingers dug into the sheets, gripping desperately. Something had to ground me, hold me here, because the sensations wracking my body were overwhelming. Blinding, almost. It built and built and built and built until the gentle rise of pleasure mounted and slammed into me, taking me over the edge into an orgasm that had bright spots dancing behind the lids of my closed eyes, that had all my muscles clenched, that had my entire body trembling with its strength.
And somewhere through it was Damien, releasing my legs, bending over me, groaning. Groaning my name…Clutching the back of my neck…Buried so far inside me that, for the barest moment, in the middle of heightened senses and wild pleasure, we were a whole lot more than two pawns in a game.
Sixteen
Damien
My cock twitched every time I looked at her.
Like right now. She was sitting cross-legged at my breakfast table, wearing one of my white shirts that swamped her body, and she was struggling to suck up a piece of spaghetti from her fork. The strand flicked up and got sauce on her nose, which only made her half-snort with amusement and wipe the sauce away.
She didn’t get it all.
I leaned over and wiped it away with the pad of my thumb. “You’re hot even when you eat like a three-year-old.”
Dahlia pointed her fork at me. “Until I get it on your shirt, you can’t say that.”
I cleared my throat and looked at the pocket. It was barely noticeable, but there it was. A tiny bit of sauce, vibrantly red against the stark whiteness of the shirt.
“God fucking damn it,” she muttered, swiping at it.
It only made it worse.
It was my turn to snort. “Like I said: Three-year-old.”