Chapter 216: She Had Plans for Those Hands - Part 1

"I’m... yours." The words come out on a moan, low and ragged, dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest, and the sound of his own voice, the raw need in it, makes heat flood his face and his chest and his gut all at once.

She smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that could end civilizations.

Then she moves back down his body, and this time there’s no teasing in the path she takes. She goes straight to where he needs her, and her tongue, with the first touch of it against the head of his cock through the fabric of his pants, makes his entire body go rigid. She tugs the waistband down, freeing him, and his cock springs up, hard and flushed and leaking, and she looks at it with an expression of genuine appreciation before she leans in.

Her tongue is hot and wet and perfect. She licks a long stripe from the base to the tip, and he groans so loudly the sound fills the room. She does it again, slower, and then she takes the head into her mouth, her lips sealing around it, her tongue swirling against the sensitive underside, and his head drops back and his hands fist into the sheets and he makes a sound that isn’t a word, isn’t language at all, just pure sensation given a voice.

"Good boy," she murmurs around him, the vibration of the words traveling straight up his spine, and she sucks, and he nearly comes right then. His whole body seizes, his abs locking, his thighs trembling, and he grits his teeth and fights it back with everything he has because she hasn’t told him he can, and the edge passes, barely, leaving him shaking.

She pulls off, and he makes a sound of loss that embarrasses him, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She sits back on her heels and looks at him, and her tongue slides across her lower lip, slow and deliberate.

"Look at you," she says, and her voice is thick with satisfaction. "So desperate. So needy." Her eyes move across his body, taking in the bite marks scattered across his chest and ribs and stomach, the red scratch lines still burning on his skin, the bruises forming dark against his flesh. "Gods, you look so hot like this. All marked up. Covered in my bites. My scratches." She reaches out and presses her thumb into a fresh bite mark on his chest, and he flinches and groans at the same time. "You look like you belong to someone."

He does. He knows he does.

She licks her lips again, and her eyes drag from his body up to his face, and she tilts her head, considers him. Then she straightens, and something shifts in her expression, satisfaction giving way to something else, something challenging, something that makes the air between them feel electric.

"Alright," she says. "Your turn."

And she pulls away.

The loss of her mouth, her heat, her hands, the loss of everything, hits him like cold water, and he makes a sound that he’s not proud of, a wounded animal noise, and his eyes fly open and he stares at her.

"Wait." The word comes out before he can stop it, raw and incredulous. "What?"

She’s kneeling beside him, watching him with that look, the one that says she knows exactly what she just did and she’s enjoying every second of his reaction. Her lips curve. She doesn’t move. She waits.

And then it clicks.

His turn. She said your turn. Not her turn to continue, but his turn to take. To ask. To tell her what he wants.

Something dark and hot surges up through the fog of desperation clouding his brain, and his voice, when it comes, is lower than it was before, rougher, stripped of everything except raw wanting.

"Suck my cock."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Please," he adds, and the word is barely a word, more of a growl, but she seems to accept it because she moves, settling between his legs, and her hands find him, and then she goes to town.

Her tongue licks up the length of him, long slow strokes from base to tip, and then she wraps her lips around the head and sucks, just the top, her tongue working against the sensitive ridge while her hand grips the shaft and strokes. His head drops back, a groan rolling out of him, and his hips buck upward, seeking more, needing more, and she takes it, her mouth warm and wet and perfect around him.

She licks down, then up, then takes just the head again, and the pattern of down, up, suck, swirl drives him insane, the rhythm of it building something at the base of his spine that coils tighter with every pass. His hand finds the back of her head before he even decides to move it, fingers threading into her hair, and he presses down, just slightly at first, testing, and when she doesn’t resist, when she takes it, something in him breaks loose.

He pushes her down further, guiding her, his hips rolling up to meet her mouth, and the drag of her lips along more of his length than she offered before sends fire racing up through his spine. He does it again, harder, his fingers tightening in her hair, and he feels himself sink deeper into her, feels the back of her throat against the head of his cock, and the sound that tears out of his chest is guttural, wrecked, nothing like him at all.

"Fuck. Dove."

He pulls her down again, his hips bucking up to meet her, setting a rhythm now, his grip controlling her head the way she controlled his body only minutes ago, and there’s something intoxicating in that reversal, in the way her moan vibrates around him, in the way her nails dig into his thighs like she’s holding on rather than pushing him away.

He thrusts up again, deeper, and she gags, a wet, choking sound around him, her throat convulsing, and his whole body freezes.

He lets go instantly, both hands flying off her head like she’s fire, and his hips still beneath her.

"Shit, are you okay? Dove?"

She pulls back, coughing once, her eyes watering, a thin line of saliva connecting her lips to the head of his cock before it breaks. She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, and her eyes, wet, dark, furious with something that isn’t anger, lift to his.

He searches her face, breathing hard, his hand hovering uncertain in the air between them. "I didn’t mean to. I should’ve..."

"Shut up." Her voice is hoarse, scraped raw, but there’s a wicked curve pulling at her mouth even through the roughness of it. "I’m fine."

"I just... you gagged, and I thought..."

"Thorne." She says his name like a correction, like she’s annoyed he’s still talking. Her hand presses flat against his stomach, holding him down. "I said I’m fine."

He swallows, his chest still heaving, uncertainty knotting tight behind his ribs even as his cock throbs, untouched now, aching from the loss of her mouth. "I don’t want to hurt you."

Something flickers across her face, amusement, maybe, or something sharper, and she tilts her head, studying him the way she might study a puzzle she already knows the answer to.

"You’re so worried about me," she murmurs, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment. "So careful." Her hand slides up his stomach, over the marks she left there, pressing into one of the bruises just hard enough to make him hiss. "You stopped."

"You gagged..."