Page 60 of Honey Cut
On the other side of the car, Tristan opens his eyes.
Mark uses a thumb to pull on the hood of my clitoris, to expose it fully, and then he teases it with his mouth, sucking, laving, fluttering. It had felt incredible when Tristan did this to me on the yacht—very hard for thisnotto feel incredible, I think, all things considered—but Tristan had been learning everything along with me, had been brand-new to pussy.
Mark is not brand-new—that is very, very clear. He knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly when to tease and when to torture, when to coax and when to apply so much pressure or suction that all I can do is squirm helplessly under his mouth.
My nipples are hard points under my dress; all of me feels hot and restless and alive. The scene in front of me is obscenely decadent: Mark in a tuxedo, large enough that his dress shoes are crowded against the seat behind him, that his shoulders wedge my thighs painfully apart. His hair gleams in the city lights as we drive, a few strands falling forward to tickle my bare mound as he eats me. Like this, I can see the stretch of his back, the firm curve of his ass. When I look up at Tristan, that’s where his eyes are, at the place where Mark’s trousers pull tight over his thighs and rear.
“Hmm,” Mark says, pressing a thumb into my sheath, dragging it back out. Again. Again. I can feel the slippery sensation of my own wetness lubricating his movements, and then his thumb moves lower, to my bottom hole.
I tense. I haven’t had this part of me played with very much. A finger, occasionally, or the graze of a seeking tongue. Mark’s thumb is slick with my arousal, but even slick, it’s a tight, strange invasion.
“Oh,” I shudder out as it slides up to the first knuckle. “Oh my God.”
Mark looks up at my face, a slow, malevolent smile blooming on his mouth. “Darling whore,” he says. “All it took was someone playing with your asshole to turn you sweet.”
“It was your idea,” I remind him through panting breaths. I can feel that thumb in my stomach. “You can hardly blame me for liking it.”
“Oh, I think you more than like it,” Mark says, and before I can argue, he dips his head again. Tongue in my pussy. Teeth scraping teasingly at my outer flesh. My clit sucked and then rubbed with his tongue while he uses one hand to keep me spread open. And all the while, his thumb is in my backside, pressing in every direction, as if testing how tight I am there.
Tristan is watching me now, his eyes raking from my face to where Mark eats me to Mark’s planted knees on the car carpet and then back to my face again. His head is pressed back against his seat, and his eyelids are hooded low. An outrageous erection tents his trousers.
I watch as he helplessly brings his hand to his cock, chafing himself over his clothes, his thighs going wide and his hips starting to lift. Our eyes meet, and his already flushed cheeks flush darker.
I’m sorry, he mouths silently. But his hand doesn’t slow down.
A climax is building low in my core, a heavy pressure surging against Mark’s unfairly skilled mouth and slicking the work of his powerful tongue. I’m going to come, and I’m going to come while my husband is using his gorgeous mouth on me, and I’m going to come while our bodyguard tries to discreetly jerk himself through his suit pants.
“Sir,” I breathe, and I feel Mark pause, a flicker of surprise running through him. I so rarely call him that in private. But he likes it because he gives a vicious growl and crawls up my body to give me a hot, wet kiss.
He’s massive, hunched over me like this, his shoulders swallowing me in shadow, his arms caging me in. When we break from the kiss with a shared shuddering inhale, he’s staring at me with dark eyes. The glimmers from my dress make a thousand points of light in his gaze.
“Please, sir,” I beg, finding his hand and trying to push it against my cunt. “I’m so close. Please let me come.”
“No, I think not,” he says. Blandly. And then gives my cunt a hard swat.
Pain crackles through me, from my clit to my belly button and into my chest, and as I suck in a long breath, Mark gets back into his seat, somehow making crawling around the back of a car look easy and sophisticated.
Tristan’s hand is on his thigh now, but his other hand is a fist by his side. His head is still flung back against his seat, and he’s closing his eyes again, swallowing and swallowing.
“It’ll be better if you’re panting for it,” says Mark, not bothering to refasten his seat belt. “I promise.”
The limousine comes to a stop. We’re here.
twenty-two
ISOLDE
Within just a fewminutes of us striding onto the rooftop terrace, I’m sitting on a table with my legs spread. And Mark’s promise is kept—I am indeed panting for it, and it does make it better. A cluster of the rich and the powerful and the beautiful are standing around me, gazing down at my pussy as they sip muddled pear cocktails from long-stemmed coupes. A warm wind laden with the promise of autumn—changing leaves, the first sweet notes of plant decay—ruffles my hair and the sheer cape hanging from my shoulders. Music plays, something between instrumental and electronic, something between the opera and the vinyl and LED vibes of the hall. And I’m part of the show he’s giving them, as much of the night as the music or the autumnal cocktails. As the city slouches on the edge of the riverbank, lazily clutching power to itself.
I think I love it.
Yes, it feels right to have Mark use me, exploit me, feed the darkness that I think has always leached through my blood, but there’s another kind of darkness here, another kind of thrill.
After years of dancing around money and handshakes and all the unguent lobbyings and insinuations that come with my father’s world, it is almost intoxicating to see everything laid bare to its rawest form. We only shake hands because we can no longer draw knives; we only lobby because we can’t snatch away what we want and take it back to our walled city.
But here, every desire and ambition and coveted thing is made explicit. Here all the dressings and decorations of power are ripped down, leaving everything in its most primal, biological form.
Sex.
