He is smiling when he coaxes it back out of my mouth, the handle glistening, and wraps his napkin around the blade, gripping it tightly to keep it safe and steady. He holds the knife upright on the table, the slick handle pointing upward like an obscene offering. “On your knees,” he orders, pointing to the table. “Sink down on it.”
My body obeys before my mind can argue, climbing onto the table, the wood cool against my knees. Like he has me under a hypnotic spell. I position myself over the handle. "Stop," he says, and I do…just for him to reach out, and tuck the edge of my skirt so neatly into the waistband. Leaving me exposed when me as I lower myself to his fuckingwhims, the wet handle slidingagainst me with a cold, thrilling pressure. My eyes water at the intrusion I press down on, rocking down slowly,tooslowly—
Until Kent fists a handful of my hair, his grip tight enough to make my dye-darkened roots burn. “You can do better than that, Delilah,” he growls, guiding my hips up and down, forcing a rhythm that makes my breath hitch. "If you can't take this, how will you take my cock?"
He steps back, relinquishing his grip on my hair just to rip open my blouse with a single yank, buttons scattering across the table. Ruthlessly, his hands shove my bra down, freeing my breasts. Like a needy plaything, I push my chest out for him, inviting his mouth. He ignores the gestures. Instead, he watches me.
Watches the tits he'd praised last night bounce with my every movement, his eyes dark with hunger. His hand returns to my hair.
While the other works his cock, stroking himself in time with my motions, the sight of him so raw and unfiltered it sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this, Delilah,” he says, his voice rough with desire. “Twisted little slut.”
I don’t argue the name this time, lettingDelilahsettle over me like a claim I’m too far gone to fight. The handle moves inside me, guided by his grip on my hair, each thrust a mix of pleasure and edge that has me trembling.
“Stop,” he exhales, and I freeze, panting, my body screaming for release as I hover on the edge. Arguments, vehement and blistering, singe my tongue. “Lie down,” he says. “Head off the edge for me.”
For me,he says. Once, I would have done anything. Anything, for him. And he hadn't stayed.
I hate myself for the way I comply now, regardless, moving to his instructions until I am flat on my back on my own dining table, with my head hanging off the side, the world tilting upside down as blood rushes to my skull.
Enraptured by him when he steps closer, his hands finding my breasts, pinching my nipples hard enough to make me gasp. “Take my cock in your mouth, pretty girl,” he says, and I do, my lips parting as he guides himself in, filling my throat with rocking, insistent thrusts. Keening, I swallow around him, my hands gripping the table edges, my body trembling with the intensity of it. My eyes fill with tears that spill as he groans, mean and guttural, his fingers tightening on my nipples as he uses my mouth.
I let him. I let him use me until he comes, hot and bitter, and I take every drop, my throat working to please him even as my own need burns.
When he pulls back, I’m shaking, my voice a whine as I insist, “I need to come! Kent—Kent,please.”
His palm comes up to cradle my face, his thumb swiping a tear from my wet cheek. He bends down and presses his lips to my forehead, knocking the breath from my lungs all over again.
I almost can't process when his fingers trail down my stomach to find my clit, pinching it hard enough to make me cry out.
“My precious slut,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with shadow-black affection.
My vision is blurred with tears, and I watch his silhouette round the table with predatory grace, his eyes never leaving me, the knife still in his hand, its handle slick with my saliva and arousal.
He kneels between my thighs, his free hand spreading me open, exposing me to the cool air and his unrelenting gaze. With such care, he positions the knife handle at my entrance, the wet handle sliding in with an utter lack of resistance that makes my breath hitch.
His mouth descends, tongue flicking against my clit, teasing with light, maddening strokes before he sucks hard, drawing a moan from deep in my chest.
Relentlessly, he fucks me with the knife handle, each thrust calculated, deep, and unyielding, his lips and tongue working in tandem, building me higher with ruthless intensity until I’m trembling, every nerve screaming for release.
The combination is too much: his tongue, the handle, the sting of his pinch.
It feels like a span of seconds until I come so hard my vision whites out, my ears ringing as my body convulses, my scream muffled by the aftershocks.
I’m barely coherent when I hear him chuckle, his breath hot against my thigh. “That’s your phone, honey.”
I blink, disoriented, the ringing now distinct—a shrill vibration from my bag across the room. Reality crashes back, the wrecked kitchen, the shattered plates, the knife still in his hand.
I’m a mess, blouse torn, body trembling, but the look in his eyes tells me this is far from over.
Chapter 22 - Kent
The knife handle glistens between her thighs, slick with evidence of what we've just done, and for a moment I'm transfixed by the sight of her sprawled across my carefully arranged dinner table.
Lila's chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, her torn blouse hanging open, dark hair mussed from my hands.
She looks thoroughly claimed, thoroughly mine.
The satisfaction that fills my chest is primitive and absolute.
