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Three a.m.
Where I’m from, that time is a symbol for reckoning, and maybe it’s true. Who the fuck knows? I keep my breathing quiet and labored as I watch the blanket on her body rise and fall each time she takes a breath. What is with you, Little London, and why the fuck do I want to feel you at my mercy?
She moans sleepily, kicking her leg out of the bedsheet. The full moon massages her skin, giving the perfect lighting as I shift forward slightly, moving the hoodie over my head. If she wakes up, what would she do?
Her skin is perfect. Not a single fucking flaw, and the worst part is, I know what she feels like beneath my touch. What she tastes like on the tip of my tongue. It’s not enough, though. She’s like a hit of Devil’s Drop—addictive, consuming, and a definite way to die.
She shuffles again. This time the white sheet slides off her body and I’m staring back at her half-naked. She’s wearing a small little bralette and tight booty shorts that tighten around the crescent of her ass. I feel my cock swell against the zipper in my jeans and I shift back again, spreading my legs wide. The more I’m locked inside a trance, the more I find myself desperate to touch her. The need too great. Her ass too perfect.
I flick the button of my jeans off, my eyes never leaving her and pull down the zipper, wrapping my fingers around my thick cock and letting it rest in my palm the way I want her to. I play with it first, with the smoothness of my skin, rubbing the cushion of my thumb over the tip of my cock to dampen it with my pre-cum before sliding it down the base and cupping my balls.
She moans again and my dick twitches in my grip. I swear I can smell her from here. I inhale deeply, taking in the sweet scent of rose. Of lavender.
I need to fucking touch her. To break her open and feel her blood dripping down my skin, if only so I can taste it again.
I pump gently as my breathing hitches in my throat. I want to move her panties to the side and bury my face against her pussy. I jerk myself harder. Faster. Sweat drips down my temples as I keep myself fixated on her. Ripping her underwear away and forcing my cock so deep inside her that it leaves my mark for everyone else who tries to touch her after.
I want to fucking hurt her—lick her—suck her dry. My balls tighten as my toes curl and my throat closes around myself when I feel the explosion of my orgasm shoot out from my cock in jerking movements.
I release my dick slowly, allowing myself to lie still for a few seconds as I catch my breath. Leaning down to the ground, I pick up a discarded shirt. Bringing it to my nose, I inhale deeply and snarl at the scent I pick up. Desperation and cheap cologne. Her shitty friend Ben.
I clean my dick with it but catch some cum on my thumb, tossing it to the ground and putting myself away before standing to my full height. I don’t even bother to hide my heavy footsteps, because at this point, I want her to wake up. To see me standing over her body before I fucking take hers for myself.
Her blonde hair is spread over her pillows, her little face turned to the side and lips slightly parted to breathe. My mouth kicks up into a dark smirk as I bring my cum-covered thumb to her mouth, dipping it inside. “You taste that, baby girl? Yours.”
I swear my girl hums her approval, and the sound is too fucking tempting to stop, so I press a little further. Goddamn, if she doesn’t open up for me, both her lips and her legs.
I want to slide between them and fuck away Ben and his scent from her body. Maybe I should. Cover her mouth with my hand and force myself inside of her until she’s begging me for more.
“Hmmm,” I murmur, biting down on my lower lip until I draw blood.
No. Not yet.
For now, I’ll settle for oneirokinesis, and maybe a little bit of royal magic…
London
I fly up in my bed, fingers clenched in the sheets, legs trembling and the ache between them a sweet sort of torture.
I’m soaked, both slick with sweat and arousal as I drag my hands to my neck, fighting for a solid breath as if I just got done with an epic fuckathon when it was no more than the makings of a wet dream.
The images flash before me in warm waves, and I bite my lip.
Knight standing at the end of my bed.
