Page 46 of Salt Kiss
I stop, unsure of what he means. Stop crawling? Stop this—this—game altogether?
But no, he’s already dropping to his knees behind me, there’s more lube, the tear of a condom wrapper, and then—
“Oh my God,” I mumble, my head dropping between my shoulders. I’d thought earlier, on my stomach, was intense, but like this, on all fours, it’s breath robbing.
“You looked so lovely crawling for me,” Mark explains, one hand curled around my hip, the other making soothing passes on my spine as he forges deeper and deeper. “Your pretty hole still wet and open. I had to. I had to.”
I am more yielding than I was earlier, I think, the muscle worked pliant, but it’s still intense, intense enough to make me moan, to make my cock leak and leak and leak as he fits himself to the glove of my body and makes use of it.
Outside, through the glass of the conservatory, the skies open and rain begins to drop on the glass. Hard, like falling stones. It swallows up the slick noise of Mark behind me, of my choked gasps.
But the sound I make when Mark presses an autocratic hand to my throat and arches me up so that I’m upright and my back is to his chest—that carries just fine. A low, loud moan, rolling like thunder, juddering and breaking as each thrust works me from the inside out.
Mark’s hand stays tight on my throat, keeping me stretched and arched, but his free hand finds my bobbing cock and gives the hot, rigid flesh a squeeze.
“Please, sir,” I manage, knowing I sound pathetic, pleading. “Please.”
“But why,” he says in my ear, “when you are so perfectly sweet right now? Maybe I should leave you like this forever, hard and begging, so you’ll offer up your body whenever I so much as look at you?”
I pant, the agony of his denial and the agony of my lust too tangled to pick apart, and he knows it, he must know it, because there’s a pleased laugh in my ear, dark and low, as he drops his hand to my tightening testicles and cups. My eyes flutter shut—it’s so good—it’s almost enough—if he just kept fucking me, I think that alone would—
“Fuck,” he grunts, and for the second time today, I feel the swell and surge of him inside me. Even though it’s not my climax, I’m shivering like it is, wishing he weren’t wearing a condom so I could feel his cum, so that it could make everything slick and slippery. So that I could carry around a part of him inside me.
So that he’d be leaking out of me all day.
God, just the thought of it nearly breaks me.
He doesn’t loosen his hold for a long minute after he orgasms, his face coming to rest in my neck as his cock stops pulsing.
“You’re dangerous,” he finally says against my skin. “This is why I didn’t—goddammit. I can’t make it twenty feet without fucking you. What are we going to do?”
My erection is a thing of misery between my legs. “I don’t know,” I say, almost nonsensically. I can barely think. I just want him to fuck me or let me touch myself oranything.
A heavy sigh as Mark pulls free and stands. A firm hand to my shoulder stops me from standing too.
“To the bedroom,” says Mark kindly, as if I’ve forgotten.
“Sir” is my response, and this time we finish the journey.
The sound of rain,steady, drumming, lovely, fills the room. The first thing Mark did when he came into the bedroom was open the doors to a small, magnolia-littered balcony.
The second thing he did was tie me to his bed.
I regret begging him to jerk me off earlier, because for the last hour, he’s been doing exactly that...except not letting me finish, backing off at the precise moment I’m about to crest and watching with a cruel smile as I writhe and twist against my bonds. My good manners slowly melt away too, until I’m swearing, cursing, calling him an evil motherfucker, a sadistic bastard, telling him I hate him.
Every insult only seems to delight him more. “It’s a shame you’re not being sweeter,” he’d say with a sigh. “Only sweet things get to finish.”
Or: “It’s only just now that you’re seeing I’m evil? And they said you were such a brilliant soldier, my God.”
And then my insults turn into worship, into reverence, as he crawls slowly over my body. The rain washes the stones and ferns and trees outside, sending in a smell that is exactly likehim, and the muted silver light is beautiful on his naked form. Long, muscled legs, etched chest and stomach. Broad shoulders that drape me in shadow.
He lays his entire body over mine, and then with his fingers on my jaw, he brushes a kiss over my lips. It’s soft and warm like the rest of me is straining and stippled with goose bumps, and then he parts my lips with his own, dipping his tongue inside my mouth and moaning at my taste. I feel the moan tremble through his chest into mine, and I feed the moan right back into him, trying to arch, trying to chase.
His lips curve as he pulls back, waits for me to accept that he’s in charge of this before he licks into my mouth again. Our tongues slide together, and it’s wet, and God, it feels so fucking good to have himkissme, and then his hips begin moving.
It makes me burn up from the inside out, how good his cock feels against mine, rubbing and rutting. The chafed skin of my frenulum sends little bites of pain along with it, so that every surge of pleasure is razored with a tiny bit of discomfort, and I’m suspended on the edge, dangling, helpless, keening. The building orgasm in my belly has been so thwarted, so tortured, that it almost doesn’t know how to unfurl itself and bloom, and I’m crying, I realize, hot tears tracking down my face, because it hurts so good, so goddamngood.
And then I remember what Andrea said after I found Mark with Ms. Beroul, that he could effortlessly dominate someone even in a brightly lit grocery store, and Iget it. I get it now. He didn’t have anything today but an old ruler and the weight of his body, and he still wrecked me. Tortured me, used me. Made me want to worship him. And never more than right now, with his mouth on mine and a hand slipping down to palm my backside and keep our hips fitted tight together.
