But there were no rules here. There was a hunger, a ravenous need from both of us, making the air too thick to speak through, breathe through. His lips were all over me. My hands tore at his hair. Lips on my nipple. Then teeth. I cried out, or I tried to. My throat was dry, parched, thirsting for more. Thirsting for him.
He moved to my other nipple, and I writhed against the bed, already close to breaking apart, already soaking wet, primed, ready, painfully empty without him. If I could’ve spoken, I would’ve begged him, would’ve pleaded for him to fill up all the empty places inside of me. But I couldn’t speak. I just continued to feast on him, letting him take control.
I couldn’t say his name. Couldn’t even think it. I was afraid if I did, he might disappear. If I was finally and truly going crazy, imaging all of this, I’d relish insanity ... for a little while, at least.
It was dark. Pitch black. The window blinds were open because I liked to wake with the sun and look at the stars before I went to sleep. There were no stars tonight. No moon. Only darkness. He was the deepest shadow of them all, hanging over me. That was good. I didn’t think I could handle seeing him—if he was real—at the same time as feeling him, smelling him. Tasting him.
His lips moved against mine as he lowered his body, giving me his weight. He was naked, his bare skin hot against mine.
I’d slept soundly in my bed while this man broke in—though I wasn’t sure if it could be classified as a break-in when I’d kept the doors unlocked—and hadn’t woken until his lips were on my skin. It was probably because I’d been dreaming of him, clinging to him in my sleep, so used to him being gone when I woke.
His lips moved down my stomach, and I breathed heavily, my body writhing underneath him as he worked his way down.
The next sound was the tearing of my underwear, his hands on my thighs, pressing them apart. Even though they opened for him without hesitation, I knew there would be bruises from his fingertips. The way he was pressing into my skin made me wonder if he needed the same kind of reassurance that I was real as I did.
There was no waiting, no buildup once he opened my legs, his mouth suddenly there. Right there, tongue gliding across my clit, moving expertly. My hands fisted the sheets of the bed, needing to tear the fabric apart while he was tearing me apart. Putting me back together.
His fingers entered me as the point my climax reached its peak, so I clenched around him.
He made a sound then. A satisfied growl coming from the back of his throat, a hungry one. His mouth was gone, and his face was no longer in between my legs, his body moving until his lips were on mine, tasting of me, tasting of what he did to me.
He hovered there for just a moment, breath hot on my face, cock pressing up against my entrance, body bearing down on me. I held my breath, waiting for his voice. As much as I thought I thirsted for it, right now, I prayed he’d stay silent. This moment was far too full for words, the air still too thick.
But he didn’t speak. Not one word.
I cried out as he surged inside, brutal, beautiful, filling up every inch of me, feeding everything inside of me that had been starving. It was at this point I could no longer keep clawing at the sheets, I needed his skin, needed to know he was real. So I let my hands move, raking my fingernails down his back in some kind of frenzy. I was mad from him. Maybe I had finally gone insane. At this moment, I didn’t care. All I needed was more. More of him. More of his skin underneath my fingernails.
He moved slowly, but each thrust was hard, almost violent. I matched that violence, wrapping my legs around him as my nails scraped at his back—something I hadn’t been allowed to do before. The thought was murky in my mad mind. It used to be forbidden, my hands on his back, my nails scoring his skin. But I no longer gave a fuck about what was forbidden. Not anymore.
He grunted in pain, or maybe pleasure—it didn’t much matter at this moment—as I cried out with my climax, clenching around him, milking his release.
I didn’t let him go. Couldn’t.
What if I woke up?
What if he disappeared?
Seconds passed.
Minutes.
Nothing changed.
He was here. In my bed—or my rented bed. In the country I used as a refuge, as an escape, as a barrier against this man. The sounds of my rapid breathing seemed to fill up the room. I was sucking in air, gulping at it. Not just because of what had just happened. But because I hadn’t breathed this deeply in months, with his arms tight around me, with his cum still inside me, with his scent enveloping me.