Page 47 of Honey Cut
The leather keeper swats my bared nipple until I’m groaning, and then a sharp strike lands squarely on my clit. I scream, my back arching off the bed, the pain like a spear into my entrails, a lance from my pussy all the way to my heart, separating rib from rib and lung from lung.
I am torn apart, and I am alive, and the very air around me seems to sparkle with joy, with the presence of God. Tears track down the sides of my face, into my hair, fast and thick, and everything inside me is empty and dazed. I am a vessel of breath and joy.
I don’t know how much time passes like that, but Mark is crawling over me again, this time with his erection gloved in clear latex, and then he settles between my spread thighs with a rough exhale. His thighs are so firm and large against mine, his sheathed cock is a forge-hot bar pressing against my clitoris, and his large hands are planted on either side of my head, caging me in a jail made of muscle and husband.
With him right over me, I can see so much that I didn’t before. The white threads and pink divots of infinitesimal scars on his chest and arms, the notch of his Adam’s apple. The different shades of platinum and gold in his hair.
Our eyes meet, and with the way the stage lights fall and the candles around us flicker, I can see the disparities of color in his irises, the infinite crypts of marine blue and the frill of azure around his pupils. All of it blue, but all of it different, shifting, intricate. A labyrinth, but the monster isn’t only in the middle this time.
My thighs sting miserably where Mark’s own thighs rub against the edges of the fresh welts—being cuffed like this means that I can’t spread my legs any farther apart than they already are. The abused soles of my feet are screaming. And when Mark lowers his mouth to my breast and sucks on the battered tip, I give a groan that has the audience reacting in gasps and scattered cheers.
My husband lifts his head to look at me, his mouth wet and his eyes hooded.
“Let’s see if I can play by my own rules,” he says, almost to himself, and then presses his mouth to mine. His lips are warm, as soft as his erection isn’t, and there’s something hesitant in the way he parts my lips to taste me. Or maybe nothesitant—it’s hard to imagine Mark as anything other than entirely certain all of the time—but careful. Thoughtful. Like this is something he’s chosen to do, but at a price he didn’t want to pay.
There are cheers now, but I can barely hear them. His breath is all there is, along with the shift of the bed underneath him as he slides his arms under my shoulders to cradle my head from below, keeping my mouth exactly where he wants it. There is the sound of our lips, parting, moving—and all of it is lost to the rush of my blood anyway, to the gorgeous, slipping, falling feeling of this. Of Mark kissing me like he’s risking something, putting something on the line.
The caution of his kiss slips as his fingers spread through my hair, as his weight presses me into the bed. His tongue is dipping and seeking, stroking along my own, and with a low groan, he crushes his mouth even harder against mine.
I kiss back as much as I can while spread and cuffed, while my head is trapped in the cradle of his strong hands, but I’m resourceful. And I’m so desperate for this that it will shame me later when I’m in my right mind.
I open my mouth for him, chase his tongue. I breathe in his exhales and feed him mine in return. I try to lift my hips and my chest, hating the silk still separating our stomachs.
“You’re still a terrible idea,” he whispers against my mouth, an echo of what he told me that night on my father’s desk. “The worst I’ve ever had.”
“Then don’t let me go to waste,” I reply, and he groans again, biting my lip and then my jaw and then sucking at my pulse through my neck.
“Never,” he mutters, lifting up on his hands. “You were too dearly bought.”
Tristan and I always fell on each other, eager and impatient animals, grabbing and fumbling until we found our way to pleasure. But watching Mark deliberately rise and take himself in hand is more obscene than the mindless lust Tristan and I shared on the yacht. There is no ambiguity here, no excuse. There is intention in every movement and shift, in the rake of his eyes from my sucked-on neck to my sex, in the flex of his biceps and shoulder as he checks the condom and then fits the swollen tip of his penis to my center. He doesn’t look at the crowd to see if they’re watching—their attention is a living thing, palpable even through my dizzy float of endorphins—but he does look over the headboard once. To the wings.
I wonder what Tristan is thinking right now, what he’s feeling. If he feels jealousy the same way I feel it, like a crush around the chest and a clench in the belly. If his flesh responds to emotional pain like it’s physical pain. Like there’s no difference between Mark leaving invisible welts with his absence and leaving welts with a riding crop.
The first push is a labored one, both of us so swollen with need, and Mark only gains a half inch, not even his whole tip. He adjusts the hand planted by my head, his other hand keeping his erection in place as his hips shift.
He pushes again, a brutal intrusion, and I toss my head between my restrained arms as he shifts and then gains another few thick inches. The stretch itself is scorchingly erotic, the fullness feeding the fever in my veins and coaxing it higher and higher. Pleasure is a relentless tug below my navel, and it twines through the lingering pain, dumping more chemicals into my blood. It blooms in darker blooms than even the flowers nestled poisonously in the hall.
The audience is growing raucous now; I hear movement along with the cheers and calls. When I turn my head, I can make out disarray and skin, although it’s difficult to see much more through the glow of the stage lights and my own sparking vision.
“They’re jealous,” Mark whispers. He is breathless, breathless when he never lost his breath sparring me or even flogging my ass within an inch of its life. “They want to be playing with you. Using you. Touching this gorgeous—cunt?—”
A flex, and I think he’s almost all the way in. His eyes burn over my face, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders are tight. He is tight all the way down, in fact, his chest and stomach held in trembling restraint, a damp sheen on his skin like he’s been fighting on a second front this entire time. Keeping himself leashed.
I think about what the crowd is seeing, all six foot and some inches of his nakedness, the flexure of his backside, the poised strength of his thighs and back. He seems entirely unselfconscious, as if performing for his members is the same in a tuxedo as it is in only a condom, and images from last night’s dream flicker in my thoughts. Mark wearing only a gold torc around his neck, torchlight on his naked body, a pillar of arrogant ease.
A final push. His hips are flush to mine; my belly is full; I can hardly breathe. His head drops, some hair escaping its ruthless hold to hang down over his forehead. His chest is moving hard now, heaving, and he mumbles, “God, how I’ve wanted this.”
“How I’ve wantedyou,” I say on a breath, and it should serve my purposes, it should be part of my seduction, but, of course, it’s also the truth, the rawest honesty. I’ve wanted him and I’ve loved him and he’s burned in me for years. A fever of the heart. A fever of the brain.
He captures my mouth again, a punishing kiss coupled with a deep, agonizing thrust. I moan into his mouth, the faint kiss of pain inside my cunt matching the hard kiss above, and he does it again, a stroke so deep that it feels like he’s trying to reach the very air I breathe.
The audience loves it, and there’s a feral edge in their voices now, a wildness. We’ve cajoled them past what decorum can bear, led them to a laden feast and made them watch as we sunk our teeth into plump and juicy fruit.
One of Mark’s hands finds my collar to stroke and then he moves to my waist, clutching it and then my ass with bruising possessiveness, all while he tries to split me in half with his unholy flesh. Sometimes he just watches me, a flush to his cheeks and almost no blue left to his eyes, the intensity of his gaze as he pierces my center over and over again absolutely harrowing.
The orgasm is an abyss at my feet, a yawning annihilation, and I’m terrified of it, terrified of pleasure that immense. I fight it, sucking in breath after breath, squirming as much as I can, but Mark’s invasion is relentless: thick, filthy caresses on the inside of me while the hilt of his dick kneads the throbbing knot at the top of my pussy. And it’s too much, I think, too much for me to stop. Maybe I could fight off the pain or the pleasure by themselves; maybe I could resist the seasoned vigor of his body. Maybe I could resist the way he’s looking at me, this prize he’s bought, his little wife sitting across his mental chessboard, a shadows-and-glass girl only a few whispered pleas from being fully his.
But I can’t resist all of it together, and God help me, I can’t resist it knowing that Tristan is watching from the wings. Not because I want him to ache, towant, but because having his green eyes on me is as close as I can get to touching him again.
