Page 37 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“But—you’re sure? It’s not—most people don’t expect—”

He speaks so low I feel it in my gut, not my ears. “I expect that you are beautiful, and that you want this. I am very good at knowing what people want, and better at giving it to them.” His hand finds my jaw again, and his thumb brushes over my bottom lip before slipping inside my mouth. I whimper and greedily wrap my tongue around the digit, watching as his pupils dilate. As I suck, he continues, voice rough, “You do not need to warn me if you do not wish it, but if you have needs or boundaries—tell me now.”

I open my mouth, but my brain’s gone empty. I want him so much it’s painful. “I want—” My ears are ringing. “I want you to touch me. I want you to be rough and overwhelm me. I want to not have to explain every part—”

“Then do not explain,” he whispers, slipping his thumb out of my mouth before kissing me again. His tongue skirts the edge of my teeth, and when I gasp, he swallows the noise, one hand sliding down the side of my body, anchoring at my waist.

“Okay,” I sigh against his lips.

I break first and reach for him, scratching trembling fingers through the hair at the base of his skull, feeling the flex and heat of him. He tastes like citrus and smoke. One of his hands lands on the strip of skin at my waist, and the other slides under the hem of my shirt, palm broad and assured across my ribs.

He moves so confidently, like he’s mapping a territory he’s already memorized, and I let him. I want him to win. The need to be wanted, and to be seen exactly as I am, seizes hard in my chest.

He pushes me back against the couch, and I tumble back, my eyes hooded as I watch him slide to his knees in front of me.

“You have a beautiful body,” he says.

Camille’s hands frame my hips, his thumbs stroking soft circles at the bare skin above my waistband. He looks up, a silent question in his eyes. I nod, and suddenly his face is pressed against my fly, mouth hot and open through the thin fabric, the pressure of his tongue and lips immediately overwhelming.

I make a sound I’ve only ever heard on porn sites, sharp and so loud I clamp a hand over my mouth, but Camille doesn’t stop—he doubles down, hands firm on my thighs, anchoring me as he sucks at me through the fabric, the friction building until I’m writhing and nearly sobbing with how good it is.

His hands move up my sides, fingers flexing into my ribs, and he bites the waistband, tugging it down with his teeth, and I nearly lose my mind right there. I lift my hips for him, desperate, my arousal so intense I’m dizzy. He drags my pants down just enough to expose me, his breath fanning over the wet spot on my underwear, and I tremble, acutely aware of every inch of skin revealed.

Camille’s teeth skim the damp cotton, and then he tugs it down in the same fashion he did my pants. When I’m finally bare, he looks up at me—eyes molten, pupils nearly swallowing the color—and the sight alone is enough to send a fresh spike of heat through my whole body. I can’t stop shaking.

“You—you really don’t have to—” I stammer, as Paul never once went down on me, saying it was my job to do that to him and—Oh, holy mother of fucking fuck.

Camille mouths at me, excruciatingly slow, his thick tongue flattening against my core, dragging through the folds, tasting every part of me like he’s memorizing it. He’s not delicate; he devours me, unafraid, sucking my little dick so hard I nearly come before he even slides his lips down. When he does, he takes it all, thrusting his tongue into me again and again and again, the pressure and heat and wetness so consuming I forget how to breathe. I dig my fingers into the couch, desperate for purchase.

I think I say his name, or maybe I just moan it, but it doesn’t matter—he’s in control of everything, his hands pinning my hips, his mouth relentless. The feeling is more than I’ve ever known, and I can’t think, can’t do anything but gasp and twitch and submit.

He pulls off, just for a second, letting a string of spit break between us, and looks up at me, lips slick and eyes utterly feral. “You like it like this?” he rasps, voice thick and dark. “You like me feasting on this needy cunt?”

I nod frantically, semi-confused about why that specific word alone, dripping in his accent, almost just made me come, and he grins—a flash of white, wolfish and smug—and then he’s back on me, harder, faster, like he’s determined to draw every sound out of my body.

And then his hand joins his mouth, and I shudder so hard I nearly convulse. My thighs try to clamp together, but one of Camille’s hands pins my left hip flat, while the other—his thumb—presses hard on my dick, circling so fast and perfectly that I bite down on my own fist to keep from screaming. I crash through the first orgasm with zero warning—my body seizes, then splits into a scattered thousand pieces. My head hits the back of the couch, and everything goes white for a good five seconds.

I come back to myself with his tongue pushing inside me, working in deep, insistent strokes. He’s growling softly, just audible over my wet, ragged panting, as if he’s furious or starving or both. The sound vibrates against my hole, and it’s so overwhelming I want to push him off—but I don’t; I clutch his hair and grind against his mouth until I’m crying.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” I chant, barely able to breathe. Paul never did this, not once—never touched me like this was something to savor, to worship, not even during the good parts. It aches, the want, but it also hurts how badly I want more. “Oh my god, oh my god, please—”

Camille’s hands slide up and under my shirt, nails dragging across my ribs, taking the ribbed fabric of my top with them. He licks me with ruthless focus, and then I feel a finger at my hole, pressing, circling, and then slipping inside. It’s a shock, sudden and burning, but so good it makes my toes curl.

I gasp, almost choke, and he fucks into me with his finger, crooking it forward, thumb never leaving my dick. Each push lights up my whole body in blinding, electrical bursts of pleasure and pain so close I can’t separate them.

I writhe, legs flexing, and grab at his wrist, not to stop him, just to have something to hold on to. He hums, pleased, and I feel it everywhere, every place I’d ever wanted to be touched.

I come again before he even slows down. This time it’s louder, messier—my throat can’t hold the sounds, and I’m sobbing, keening, nearly hiccuping from the intensity. My vision blurs, and my hands clench so hard my nails dig half-moons into his skin. I want to scream yes, yes, yes, but all I can do is buck up into him and take whatever he gives.

“C’est bon,” Camille whispers, voice gone deeper than I thought possible. It’s good. “Don’t hold back. Let it all out.”

He adds a second finger, stretching me, then slides his mouth up, teeth nipping at my dick so deliciously I see stars. I shatter a third time—my body locking up, then convulsing so hard I nearly pull him up off the floor. My thighs clamp around his head, and the pressure almost makes me faint, but Camille seems thrilled by it, rutting his tongue against me as if he can taste my soul.

I’m shaking, sweating, barely aware of where I am. When he finally pulls away, I collapse back into the velvet of the couch, boneless and fucked-out, unable to move. My hole pulses, empty and raw, and my chest heaves as I try to remember how lungs work.

I taste metal in my mouth, salt and static. I keep my eyes shut, hoping maybe Camille will give me a minute to reboot, but instead I feel the couch dip, and then his hands slide up my thighs, kneading muscle with quiet, predatory patience. There’s a wet sound as he licks his lips. I risk a glance down. He’s palming himself through his pants, the outline of his cock evident, brutal, and obscene. It has no business being that big. He’s not even touching me, and I am so far gone I can’t move my hands.

He pushes my knees apart and settles, his weight a warm anchor. “Do you want to see me?” His voice is a sawblade dragged over silk. “Or do you wish to rest?”