Page 20 of Honey Cut
But, oh God, how he’s looking at me now, those blue eyes blazing over me. His thumb in my mouth, the jut of his desire between us, almost a hundred thousand dollars of dress crumpled around me.
I have the real, awful fear that I will never win against him, never get what I need for the Church, and I will fail everyone, including God. Because what is winning and what is losing when my fiancé is now using two fingers to hold my mouth open as he slides his dick inside? What could winning or losing possibly even be when I can feel myself respond, my nipples hardening, my cunt swelling and growing wet—just from being so crudely used?
Mark grunts at the first wet glide of his erection across my tongue. “This is the first time I’ve had your mouth,” he tells me. “And it does not disappoint.”
His fingers push down even more, and he reaches the back of my mouth, into my throat. I seize around him a little, but not as much as I did the first time Tristan did this, and Mark grunts again.
“That’s good, sweetheart.” He rocks back and then pushes even farther in this time, testing me. My hands fly up to his hips automatically, and he pulls his fingers free from my mouth and then grabs both wrists.
“Snap if you need me to stop.” He pulls back, his cock wet, my mouth wet. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I say automatically. My voice is already hoarse.
He likes that, I think, because his eyes hood a little. “Good.”
And then he lets go of my wrists so that he can take my head in his hands.
“You’re leaving your lipstick on me,” he murmurs as he flexes his hips forward and back. “I like that. I like it a lot.”
I like it too, the smear of pink I’ve left around his root. I like the taste, clean skin and a hint of salt, and I even like the tears building against my eyelashes, each clear drop like a drop of penance itself, like here I can atone for the things I’ve done, in however fucked-up a way.
Penance. It feels good in the worst way because even as it cleanses, it sullies. I squirm on my knees, seeking any kind of friction against my clit, anything at all.
Mark seems to notice my restlessness. “Are you wet under that dress? Shall I check?”
Fire flares up my thighs at the thought, and I can feel the arousal against the gusset of my panties now. If he checked…God, what would he say to me? What would he do? I’m past remembering that it would be good for me, my mission, for him to know his real effect on me. I justwant it. I want him to touch me again; I want his fingers inside me again.
I want?—
The door opens, and the noise punctures through the haze like a knife. I stiffen and try to pull back, the shame filling me up fast and hot, but Mark doesn’t let me retreat. His hands on my head keep me where he wants me, and he doesn’t pull out of my mouth or even stop fucking it. Instead he looks over his shoulder and gives a curt, “We’re busy.”
“Ah, I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Trevena. And Miss Laurence.” It’s the wedding planner. “I’d thought—I’m sorry. Excuse me.”
Mark comes just then, his eyes closing for a long moment as he pulses in my mouth. I barely taste it, he’s too far back, but the feeling of him swelling on my tongue is so viscerally, crudely erotic. He’s coming in my mouth in front of someone else, someone not of Lyonesse but of our shared world, someone who knows fully where I come from and who my family is.
Ten minutes ago, I was an heiress in a shockingly expensive dress…and now I’m just a slut on her knees, mouth open on demand.
My clit is so swollen I can feel it throbbing.
Mark gives a low, satisfied groan—coupled with a few more deep strokes past my lips—and pulls out. Before I can do anything, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s his thumb, rubbing the middle of his palm.
Our signal.Watch. In other words:Follow my lead.
“Show me,” he says then, and I hazard a guess. I open my mouth and show him the semen left on my tongue.
The look of dark satisfaction on his face can’t be pretend, can’t be anything other than real. “Good girl,” he says roughly. He presses a hand to my throat. “Let me feel you swallow it.”
I’m humiliated, but I’m so, so turned on too. The floor is hard on my knees, the angle of my feet in these shoes painful, and it’s the perfect bite of pain to season the degradation. If he told me to do anything now, I would do it for him. Finger myself, fuck myself with the gold-plated heel of his fairy-tale shoe. Ride his cock until he came again.
I swallow, and his thumb traces over my lower lip. It’s then I realize that I’m panting.
“Little whore,” he says fondly. “Little wife.”
And it’s only then that I hear the door close. The wedding planner stayed to watch Mark come.
I think I’m too aroused to be shocked.
After he puts himself back together, Mark studies me for what feels like an eternity, but rationally I know is only a second. His eyes rake over my heaving chest in the bridal gown, the piles of lace and silk, my smudged mouth.
