Page 48 of Honey Cut
And the guests, the guests too—their cries and moans as they touch each other and themselves in front of the stage, their gasps and goads and whispers as Mark fucks me, relentlessly. Not like a bride, but like a wife, all tenderness gone and nothing but hard mating left behind.
He lays himself fully on top of me now, hips still working to drive himself deep, and he buries his nose in my hair as he fucks. He licks my neck. He pushes his arms underneath me and crushes our bodies together so that I can feel the hammering of his powerful heart in his chest, the quiver in his stomach and thighs as pleasure bores through him.
He runs his tongue over the pulse in my neck just above my collar and then kisses my face. My tears. He’s eating them.
And then he wedges his hand between our stomachs, pushing down to where we’re fitted together.
“Don’t,” I plead, almost panicked at the thought of him making me come. The climax is too much, too big, and I won’t survive it. Just like I might not survive him. “Don’t!”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, the syllables impish and a little mean. “Don’tis not your safeword.”
I grope for the right word as his fingers reach my clit; I claw it up my throat.Hyssop. Hyssop. An exhale, a sibilation, a plosive. I should say it—fuck—I should say it because his fingers are too expert, too sure, and the climax is there, imminent, a fatal well with no light and no bottom.
But I don’t say it. I can’t seem to make myself, to form the word—and maybe it’s my competitive nature or maybe it’s just masochism, plain and simple, but I press my lips together. Even the whimpers aren’t leaving my throat right now.
I feel Mark’s mouth curving against my neck and then on my cheek. He’ssmiling, and I close my eyes so I don’t see it because I definitelycan’t handle that on top of everything else.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, and this is loud enough for the hall to hear, and they laugh and groan with lust, and it doesn’t matter because I open my eyes and see him above me, nearly as undone as I am, with his blown pupils and his swollen lips. His tousled hair, which now has a stray violet from my braid caught in the gold.
“I’m going to come.” It’s a whisper, an exhaled prayer. “Oh God. Oh my God.”
Mark licks my mouth, like he wants to eat the words off my lips. He’s still smiling, evil and tyrannical and amused. “Sirwill do for now.”
I come.
It’s a cataclysm, a plunge into nothing, just like I feared it would be. The contractions rip up from my belly and thighs and rob my breath, they tear down to the aching soles of my feet and make my toes curl. I’m thrashing underneath him, fighting my cuffs, every muscle yanking me through the flood.
I can barely see—there’s only his wickedly handsome face—and I can barely hear—there are only my cries and the cries of the crowd—and I’m sobbing as my body keeps surging and clenching around his sex. I’m sobbing because he is so veryhere, on me and inside me, because the crowd is here too, grunting with me, groaning with me. Our pleasure shared, our hunger joined.
I am not alone.
I am not alone.
He fucks me through my sobs, crooning low in my ear as he uses my wet cunt the way I know he wants—ruthlessly. He presses his face against the side of mine as he ruts into the soft, tight center of me, his fingertips finding my collar as he’s murmuring his iniquitous little nothings?—
This perfect cunt, my wife has a perfect cunt?—
You got me all wet; can you feel how wet everything is?—
I can’t stop—so fucking tight, sweetheart?—
Going to give you this every day, every hour, going to give you all my cum?—
He goes still, his mouth dropping to mine, lips grazing lips. But he doesn’t press down, doesn’t kiss me properly. Instead our breath is shared, our eyes are locked, as he shudders and then swells inside me. With a ragged groan, he fills the condom in heavy, hot jerks that I can feel with every inch of my being. On and on as our lips brush, our eyes search, and then his shut as he finally presses his mouth fully to mine and gives me several more thrusts. As if to make sure that he’s milked every last drop from his body. As if he truly can’t stop fucking me.
And this is not the first time Mark and I have had sex, and this is not the ceremony that matters legally or sacramentally.
But the fading, flickering spasms of our shared pleasure…his tongue slanting and kneading and tasting even as he still pulses his release…the lingering sear of the pain he gave me and the cool, clean freedom washing over it like water—yes, our vows are sealed. In our own way, maybe, with witnesses and restraints and creepy flowers, but they’re sealed nonetheless. We are more than married in the eyes of the law and God, we are sewn together with possession and surrender.
I’m collared; he’s triumphant.
And we can’t stop kissing. His tongue is playful, his lips wonderfully soft as his mouth slants and stamps over mine.
The kiss in the cathedral was only the prelude, a pale ghost compared to how he kisses me now. If earlier he was fucking me like a wife rather than a bride, now he kisses me like a pet. Like a plaything. And oh, how that makes my cunt ache, my clit kick again with swelling arousal. I’ve spent the past three years making myself into a killer, a weapon, a thing of ice and prayer, and now I’m turning into a wet, mewling kitten after a good kiss. I don’t know if I can forgive myself for it.
To the raw approbation of the crowd, Mark lifts up and pulls free of my pussy, one hand wrapped around his root to keep the condom on. He moves around the side, deposits the condom somewhere unseen, and returns to the bed. He then uncuffs me with practiced efficiency, flexing my fingers and toes and testing any marks the cuffs left behind.
I don’t realize I’m still crying until he reaches for me. Before I know it, he’s sitting against the headboard, and I’m cradled against his naked chest. His arms are around me, and he tilts my face up to his so he can catch my tears and lick them off his fingers.
