Page 98 of Salt Kiss
My hand on her throat isn’t that tight, so it’s not about airflow. I look at her, my hand pausing in her panties, about to ask—
“Hyssop,” she says on a quavering exhale. “That’s my safeword. I’ll say it if I need you to stop.”
I can’t keep a smile from quirking my mouth. “Mine is hazel,” I say.
Her mouth tilts too, and for a moment, we’re both still. Smiling like fools over these twin possessions of ours, and I see a new understanding in her eyes. That Mark and I weren’t just ordinary lovers, that I washis. His in the way that required a safeword.
I push my hand all the way into her underwear now, the stretchy material caught around my wrist as I skate my fingertips over the hauntingly perfect center of her. And my smile fades as the dark thrill of having her like this returns. My hand around her throat, my other hand up her dress.
It would take nothing for me to spend right now. Just a couple rocks of my hips, and the friction of Mark’s borrowed linen pants would do the rest. But I’m also so, so aware that I’ve never done this. I’ve never stroked a pussy, touched it, hoped to make it come. And I’ve never been in control before now either. With Mark, I was his plaything, his fuckdoll, and I have a fresh appreciation for how intense it is to be in charge, for the pressure of it.
I want to make it perfect for her; I want to feed this new beast inside me.
How to do both?
The fabric of her skirt is gathered on my forearm and bunched at my elbow as I stroke a path from her clit to the hot skin of her back entrance. She takes in a long breath as I continue exploring, feeling for myself her soft curls and then her wet, slick flesh.
Oh God. So...so fucking wet. I didn’t know what it would feel like, feeling someone else’swet, but it’s like being burned from the inside out, like being stroked on the inside of my skin.
My thighs are clenched to keep my climbing orgasm at bay.
I bend my face to hers and map her above as I map her below—tongue along teeth as I rim my finger around her soaked entrance, tongue against tongue as I caress the swollen knot at the front of her.
And then as my kiss dips deep, I do the same with my first finger. I push it into her, all the way to the last knuckle, and I—
My mouth breaks from hers, and I’m fighting for my life now. My whole body is trembling, transformed, by this tight channel, slick and silken. So hot that I don’t know how I’m not tasting flames in her mouth.
For a long moment, we stay like this: me straining for control, her shivering and breathing. Me feeling the inside of her under the stars, and her kiss still tasting like tears and the sea.
And I think:this is Mark’s bride.
“Can I tell you something?” I say as my thumb finds her clitoris and presses against it.
She’s trembling. “Yes.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“You’re”—more trembling—“doing great.”
It isn’t enough to do great. I want her to make my whole hand wet. I want her like she was the other day—shameless, wicked. I want her to feel just a fraction of what I’ve felt at Mark’s hands, like the happiest, most wrung-out slut who ever drew breath.
“Take my hand,” I command, pleased when she lets go of my shirt and reaches between her legs. I’m even more pleased when I feel that it’s shaking as it rests over my own. “Make my hand do what you do when you’re alone.”
Her eyes close. “Tristan.” It’s a moan.
“Do it.”
Her hand is still shaking, but she obeys, her fingertips pressing to my fingertips, guiding me,usingme. She uses my fingers but it’s her, her making the slow circles, the gradually quickening strokes. Her clitoris is so hard now that it’s practically pouting for attention. I wonder if I could get my mouth around it and suck it like a dick. I want to try.
Her hand falls away as she grows more and more rigid against me, and I press my forehead to hers as I work her eager flesh, drawing in her every exhale as my own inhale, savoring the small noises that eke from her chest. Treasuring the gasped words—yes—close, I’m close—Tristan, faster, make me, make me—
I know the last ingredient. My other hand drops to her thigh, my thumb seeking out the slope of her quadriceps muscle, and then slipping down to dig hard against the nerve buried alongside it. Enough pressure to make her feel it, not enough pressure to contuse.
She detonates on a silent scream, her eyes wide, her hands clawing at my chest as her thighs try to clamp around my hand. I grab her thigh to keep her spread, and the minute I feel her start to relax, I push two fingers inside to feel all that wet quivering for myself.
A primal growl rumbles in my chest. The fading contractions, what I made her do. I want it again, I want more of it, and I’m not a sadist, I don’t get off on hurting her, but I lovemaking her, I love using her roughly, and I shove the heel of my palm against her clit, my fingers still buried deep.
“Ride it,” I tell her, and she shudderingly submits, fucking my hand so obediently that I can’t believe this is the same girl who plays with knives in her spare time.
