Page 27 of Scorched
"No."
I kick. He blocks with his knee. I try to wrench free. His grip holds. I'm standing naked beside his bed with both wrists caught in his hands and my legs are shaking and my cunt is clenching on nothing—missing him, wanting him, the heat roaring back the moment his cock left me—and the humiliation of it, the betrayal of my own body, makes my eyes burn.
"I'm going to kill you," I say. My voice shakes. "When my heat breaks I'm going to find my blade and I'm going to?—"
He pulls me onto the bed.
Not gently. He hauls me forward by my wrists, throws me down on my back, and is over me before I can draw a breath. My wrists pinned above my head. His hips between my thighs. His cock—still half-hard, the ridges still carrying heat—pressed against my cunt. My slick floods at the contact and my hips lift toward him before I can stop them.
"You were saying," he says.
I buck. I twist. I try to free my wrists. He holds me flat. His face is close to mine—the first time we've been face to face with him inside the space between my thighs—and his golden eyes are burning and his mouth is close enough that I can feel his breath and I hate him. I hate him with my whole body and my whole body wants him and the two things are the same size and neither one will yield.
"I will kill you," I whisper. My hips are rolling against him. I can't make them stop. "Slowly."
"Promises," he says. He shifts his hips and the head of his cock presses against me. Not entering. Pressing. Teasing. The fire magic in it radiating into my cunt without penetration and the sensation is maddening, a heat I can feel but can't reach. "But first?—"
He releases my wrists. Before I can swing at him he's moving down my body—mouth on my throat, on the brand that burns hot under his lips, on my collarbone, between my breasts, down my stomach. His hands grip my thighs and push them apart. Wide. My legs splay open on his sheets and I'm exposed—swollen, slick-drenched, his cum still glistening on my inner thighs—and he looks at me.
"What are you?—"
His mouth is on my cunt.
The shock of it blanks my mind. His tongue—hot, fire-magic hot, hotter than his fingers, hotter than anything that has touched me tonight—presses flat against my clit and I scream. My hands fly to his head, fingers twisting in his hair, my hips bucking off the bed, and his hands clamp down on my thighs, pinning me open, holding me spread while his mouth works me with a patience that has nine centuries behind it.
He isn't gentle. He's thorough. His tongue presses and circles and flattens and flicks and the fire magic in it pulses against my clit in rhythm and I'm so sensitive from the knotting, so swollen, so wrecked, that the pleasure borders on pain and the pain borders on pleasure and I can't tell them apart.
I come in under a minute. A hard, sharp orgasm that clenches through my cunt and up through my belly and I scream and try to close my thighs and his hands hold them open and he doesn't stop.
"Stop—I can't—it's too?—"
He doesn't stop. His tongue works my clit through the aftershocks, through the oversensitivity, through the place where pleasure curdles into something sharper and brighter and I'm writhing, trying to twist away, my hands shoving at his head, pulling his hair. He holds me pinned. His mouth doesn't lift.
I come again. Harder. My back arches off the bed. My hands abandon his head and claw the sheets. The scream that comes from me is raw, shredded, the sound of a woman being taken apart by a mouth that knows exactly what it's doing and has decided not to show mercy.
"Please stop—" I'm begging. I'm begging him to stop and I've never begged anyone for anything in my life and the shame of it burns hotter than his fire magic and his tongue circles my clit again and I convulse. "Please, I can't, I can't take?—"
He doesn't stop. He pushes two fingers inside me—the fire magic pulsing through them, gentler than the ridges but still hot,still too much—and curls them while his tongue works my clit and I come a third time with his fingers inside me and his mouth on me and tears streaming down my temples and my voice gone. No scream. No moan. A silent convulsion that empties me of everything.
He pulls off.
Abruptly. His mouth lifts and his fingers withdraw. The sudden absence of sensation is a shock—cold air against my soaked, swollen cunt, the throbbing pulse of oversensitivity with nothing to answer it. I lie on the bed gasping, my thighs shaking, hands twisted in the sheets, my cunt clenching on nothing, spasming in the aftermath. The emptiness is unbearable.
"No—" The word comes out before I can stop it. "Don't stop. Don't?—"
He's kneeling between my thighs. His cock is fully hard again. The ridges glow bright in the dark room. He looks down at me and I'm spread open beneath him, wrecked, dripping, the brand at my throat pulsing, tears drying on my face, my legs splayed apart because I can't close them with him between them.
"More," I whisper. I hate myself for saying it. I hate the need in my voice. I hate that my hips are lifting toward him, that my cunt is clenching, that my body is begging him to fill the emptiness his mouth just carved into me. "Please. More."
"Say it properly."
"Fuck me." Through my teeth. Through the tears. Through the shame that's burning me from the inside. "I need your cock. I need?—"
He takes his cock in his hand. I can see it—flushed dark, the ridges glowing like forge-lines, thick and hard and impossibly big between my splayed thighs. My legs are wide open. I can't close them. He looks at me looking at it and something savage crosses his face.
He slams it into my cunt so hard my eyes roll back.
My hips jolt off the mattress. My mouth opens but no sound comes out—just a choked, airless scream that gets stuck behind my ribs. Every ridge. All at once. The fire magic flaring so hot I can feel it in my spine. He's buried to the hilt inside me and the force of it has driven me up the bed, my shoulders hitting the headboard, my hands scrabbling at the sheets.
