“Let me feel those fingers when you come.” I growl in her ear. She scratches down my neck, my chest, cursing me. Each breakof the skin, each curse adds to the marks she’s making on my heart. “Come, Countess. Come.”
She lifts her hips high off the table, milking me, and I watch the rapture on her face, the way her eyes roll back and she whimpers, an animal caught in my web. I love everything about her surrender. Release her neck, and I lift her slim hips even higher, and rut into her like the predator I am. Harder and harder my hips move, her breasts shake and I love that her body is mine to control. She looks at me, her mouth open, panting moans echoing around my cabin.
“You’re beautiful like this.” I hold her still as I let the pleasure seize me. Roaring pleasure floods me. This time I want to see my cum. Pulling out, I explode on her stomach, rubbing the head of my cock in our mess.
The sight of it on her stomach, her inner thighs, dripping from her pussy onto the table, makes me feral, desperate. I lean forward, lick it off her stomach, and hold it against my tongue. Mouth filled with my cum, I hold her face, squeezing her jaw until she opens her lips. I press my mouth to hers, open my lips and spit, letting it flow on her tongue. Releasing her chin, I caress her cheek.
“Swallow.”
She watches me, swallowing, her throat muscles rolling.
“Good girl.” She moans, licking her lips, and I let her pull my neck down. I let her hold my face so she could fuse our lips. The kiss is sloppy and I taste myself on her tongue. Raising my head, I look down at her wet lips. “The taste of my smoke on your body. My cum. Your sweat. Fucking delicious.”
“I want to taste my pussy on your dick.”
“Fuck’s sake, Countess. More?”
“I can get enough of you.”
She pushes me back and kneels at my feet. Her elegant fingers pick up my softening cock, sucking on the wet skin,slurping the sensitive head. The greedy sounds she makes are magic and my cock fills with blood. I cradle her head and let her do whatever she wants. I have no control right now. I have no directions to give. She’s in charge. She’s perfect.
I close my eyes wanting, wishing I could have this every fucking day, that I could keep her here at my feet looking up at me with swollen lips, my cum collecting in the stretched corners, my cock down her throat.
Chapter 58
The moment I open my eyes, I know he’s not next to me. Not that I expected him to cuddle with me. Despite what happened to his sister's and niece’s tombstone, he’s still distant and aloof. I sit up and lean against the headboard, bringing my knees to my chest, wincing at the soreness. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had sex. Exhaustion hits me, and I let my shoulders relax as I wrap my arms around my legs. Thoughts barrel through me. Today is Sunday. Tomorrow marks the start of the week, and it feels like a precursor to the end. I can’t avoid it.
It’s time to go home.
Home.
A sharp, cold feeling covers my body. Chilled, I rub my arms. My chest feels tight thinking about it. I need to head back to the gallery, to my life. So much is riding on Jacinda’s art show going well, and I have a million things to do. And I’m days behind. I left Kingsley and then left for Stone’s place.
But sitting in his bed, sore from him fucking me, a part of me wants to luxuriate in this. To just live in the bubble of sex with Stone. Of talking to him.
But we haven’t talked about anything. Not my brother. Not what I found in the forest. Not what happened after he caught me. Not what will happen next.
I pause and listen, wondering where he is. The cabin is a decent size, not huge, but who knows what secrets are lurking. I haven’t explored simply because I haven’t felt like I could. We’ve confined our time to the kitchen and the bedroom. I don’t even know how much I can explore, considering that the man kills people. God knows what I would find.
Slipping out of bed, I stand, hobbling my way to his bathroom. I turn on the water and wash my face, ignoring the marks on my body that are a testament to how I’ve spent the last few days. I step into the shower and pick up his soap and the washcloth I’ve been using. I’ve used it for the last day, and I love how it smells on my body. Tingly and fresh. I have no doubt he made it himself.
I can’t reconcile this version of Stone. The man who makes soap and body oil from scratch is the same man who kills. A criminal. I wash my hair with another bottle that feels like a conditioner. It also has no name, but he should market it. It leaves my hair feeling smooth and lush. Finally, I step out and dry myself.
Naked and shivering, I look around his room, wondering what I’m going to wear. I have no clothes. For the last day and a half, I’ve been wearing one of his shirts. Not that I mind. He always smells good, and it’s not like his shirt stays on long. Soon, it's on the floor, and his mouth is between my legs. I head to the drawer and open it, finding neat, folded shirts in gray, black, and white. He’s not one for color.
Pulling on a white shirt, I pull it over my body, and quickly braid my hair. As soon as the shirt hits my thigh, my stomach grumbles, reminding me that I need coffee or something to eat. I’ve been burning calories like crazy.
I leave his bedroom, moving slowly, taking in the log walls of the living room. The single long couch. The fireplace. Memories of last night come to me when he lit the fire and had me ride his face while the fire warmed our bodies. I stare at the exact spot where I gripped his head with one hand while I braced with my other hand on the floor. I didn't care about anything except the feel of his tongue inside. The scrape of his stubble on my inner thigh was like nothing I had ever experienced before.
My curiosity won’t be controlled, and I walk down the hallway, surprised when I spot Stone through an open door, sitting at a desk, his naked chest on full display. I knock twice, and he looks up from where he was writing in a black notebook or journal. A diary? I wonder if he writes down his feelings. Am I in there?
He closes it and opens a drawer. He tilts his head to the side and leans back in his chair, hands over that washboard stomach. Those dark eyes rake down my body. His perusal always makes me hot. A frisson of desire curls in my belly, and I shiver under his shirt. “Can I come in?”
“So polite.”
“It’s called manners.” I smirk, leaning against the door. His smile shouldn’t make me feel this good.
“We are way past manners, Countess, but I do like it when you say please,” He leans forward, “especially when my dick is inside you. Come here.”
