Page 45 of Salt Kiss
He rides me through it all, like he’s trying to literally fuck the sperm out of my body thrust by thrust, and maybe it’s working because the climax is wringing me out, milking me of everything I have, and then I’m crying in the rug, so dizzy I can barely see, a warm slick of ejaculate underneath me.
“You—” he says, and he swears a bitten-off oath, plunging in once more and holding himself inside me with all of his weight.
Even through the dizziness, I feel him swell and pulse, releasing the fullness of his pleasure into the condom. The throb of him inside me steals my breath away, and I’m still so dizzy, and I want to feel this forever, this exact thing: him on top of me, jerking inside me, his breath warm on the stinging bite he left on my neck.
Mark doesn’t deny himself a moment of his orgasm, only moving to stroke himself a few more times with my body, as if to make sure every last bit of use of me is had, and I shudder with renewed longing as he finally slides free and straddles my thighs. I feel the wet length of his dick nestled against the cleft of my ass; when I muster the effort to look over my shoulder, he’s looking down to where his still-condomed shaft rests on my skin, his chest heaving, his cheeks flushed.
“My God,” he says, his voice hoarse with exertion. “You have no idea what a fucking prize you are.”
He gets up, and I let my eyes flutter closed for a moment, knowing I need to move but unable to summon the energy to. If it weren’t for the heavy hammer of my heart against my sternum, I’d believe I was dead.
I intuit more than hear Mark’s steps—his tread is always quiet, but barefoot it’s nearly silent—and then there’s the far-off sound of running water in the kitchen. I know he’s back when I feel a waft of air and then a warm cloth is pressed against the intimate skin of my entrance. I shiver and try to move, and a firm hand comes down on my back.
“I’m not done yet,” Mark says, and he takes his time running a hand over the welts on my thighs and ass, testing the bite on my shoulder with his fingertips. It all stings, but I don’t think there’s any broken skin anywhere; Mark must have found that wafer-thin line that maximizes sensation without causing anything more serious than a florid signature of his touch.
For a moment, I’m reminded of the rumors about him, the stories of Mark Trevena, Special Activities operator. That torture was something he often did, something he was supposed to be skilled at doing. That the reason he knows how hard to hit me without breaking the skin might be because that knowledge was very useful in his previous life at the CIA.
It should give me chills, this thought, and I think it does, except those chills are swallowed by everything else, by him rolling me onto my back and examining my face for carpet burn. He carefully wipes my cock clean, lingering triumph in his expression, along with the intense focus I recognize from his meetings. He doesn’t speak.
I’m coming back to myself unsteadily, a soul crawling back inside its earthly shell. “I think I made a mess on your carpet,” I finally say.
Mark’s eyebrows lift in blank confusion, like I’ve just brought up the price of Skittles in Svalbard. “Carpets can be cleaned,” he says slowly, like he thinks he might be missing something.
I hiss as the cloth works away the little flecks of drying orgasm on my dick. When I look down, the skin is bright red, but again, not broken.
Raw enough to hurt, whole enough to be abused again soon.
“I should clean it then,” I say. My voice is dazed. “The mess. I don’t want to leave it there—”
“It’ll be my favorite stain,” he says, sounding entertained. He uses the cloth to scrub at the worst of the spatter and then tosses it on the chair near the desk.
Mark stands up and looks down at me. At some point, the weather shifted—tepid rain to angry clouds. He’s all shadows now, and the little light that’s left is preoccupied with caressing his jaw and strong nose, with turning those blue eyes into a dark, shimmering mercury.
Above me like this, he looks like a god, something from a myth, and it’s impossible not to notice that he’s still erect.
I want—
I’m not ready for this to be over.
I’m not ready to go back to the way things were. “Is there more?” I ask in a whisper.
Something bleak passes over his face. “There’s always more,” he says.
Sixteen
He makes me crawl.
In the army, humility is beaten into you, not with impact but with effort and shame. Push-ups until you want to die, insults nasty enough to make your eyes sting, drills so hard and pointless that you want to quit. And always the reasoning is the same—it’s to make you strong, or to make you sharp, or to make you loyal.No matter how convoluted the logic is, it all leads back to those three things.
But here, today, the logic isn’t convoluted at all. It’s a short, straight line.
Why crawl?
Because he wants me to.
The floor changes from carpet to wood to stone as I make my way from the library to the rest of the house, and the shame I feel is delicately balanced by the dazzling certainty I have in this moment, by the gasping arousal that has me by the neck. My cock is a stiff pipe between my legs, swinging and aching, and the cool air reminds me of my nakedness. Of how exposed I am as one knee moves after the other.
Mark follows, lube and condom box in hand, and as we reach the main section of the house—lit by the large glass conservatory at the end, which is currently letting in the dark, silver light of the almost-storming sky—he says in a strained voice, “Stop.”
