Page 77 of Bitter Burn
It was too late before that, but it’s the puppy hanging in the air that I surrender to, the cataclysm that is his smile and Isolde’s low moans and all the slick squeezing and scorching of this intimate place of hers. I buckle as my cock swells and pulses, hard and fast, desperate to breed even as I have to list forward and support myself on Mark’s shoulders, my dick jerking in her hole and giving her everything I have left to give.
Mark lets go of Isolde and reaches up to touch my face as I stare helplessly at him, the eruption spurting on and on, unending, dizzying.
I reach up to catch Mark’s hand so I can keep it pressed against my jaw. The wedding ring on my ring finger—the ring from a wedding that wasn’t mine—flashes. He stares at it a moment, all sorts of emotions moving through his face, and then he brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it.
“You make me so proud, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m so pleased with you.”
With a grunt, I pulse out the last of my cum, and then I slide free of Isolde and stagger backward into a wall. I want to trap Mark’s words in a jar like fireflies.
You make me so proud, baby.
I’m so pleased with you.
Mark eyes me where I’m barely holding myself upright, even with the wall. He stands up with Isolde in his arms, his glistening length pulling free as he carries her over to the table. He deposits her there limply and turns to me.
“Your turn in the cuck chair,” he says, tone brooking no disagreement. “Before you collapse.”
Somehow I manage to make it over there, and I drop into it like I’ve run a hundred miles. My heart is pounding, my skin is hot and ruddy, and stinging twitches of pleasure are still coursing through me. A scrim of sparks and gray has been pulled over my vision.
I watch as Mark comes over to the side table and helps himself to the lube and the vibrator. With a few strong, sure movements, he has Isolde at the edge of the table, the wand turned on and buzzing on her clit, and has once again speared himself into her flushed, ardent cunt.
It takes almost no time at all. Her back bows, her limbs thrash, her head tosses on the table. Mark’s control is almost gone, I think, entirely threadbare, because he fucks like a lost man brought in from the cold. Her entire body twists and seizes as she calls out his name—Mark, Sir, Mark—and Mark lets out an unholy groan as she comes on his dick, going motionless and lifting the wand as if to savor her crude undulations in their purest form.
She gives a long, broken moan, still arching and trying to fuck herself against Mark, and then after a long moment, she finally uncurls and goes quiescent.
Mark slides free and drops a kiss right between her breasts. “Stay,” he tells her, like she can do anything else, and then comes to kneel in front of my chair. He presses two fingers to my pulse, studies my face and respiration.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
“Not for long,” I say. I sound like I’ve just been wrenched from a deep and dreamless nap.
He regards me for a moment. The lights from the window paint his golden hair in shades of blue and purple and pink. “What’s the difference between a dragon and a wyvern?” he finally asks.
Bemused, I slowly reply, “Dragons have four legs. Wyverns have two.”
“What’s twenty-three percent of two hundred?”
“Forty-six.”
“Dulce et decorum est…”
I inhale deeply, the cool air clearing my head. “…pro patria mori,” I finish faintly. It’s from one of his favorite poems.
His hand flexes around my wrist. “Good enough,” he says, standing up. “And what do you say to stop me?”
I exhale shakily. “Hazel.”
He takes my hands and helps me to my feet. I’m as good as my word—I can walk over to the table, but I’m grateful for the support as soon as he bends me over the edge.
“Can I fuck you?” he asks.
Yes. The answer is always yes. Even if I’m wrung out from fucking harder than I’ve ever fucked before. Even if I’m so sensitive that merely the air on my skin feels vaguely sadistic.
“Always, sir. Forever.”
“We can dream, can’t we?” he asks wistfully. And then my legs are kicked apart, and my asshole kissed and licked once, fondly. The click of the lube bottle echoes in the room.
As Mark readies himself, I turn and look at Isolde, who is staring at me with a look of soft, open affection. Staring at me like the Isolde she might have been if she’d had a mother who’d never died, a father who really loved her, or an uncle who saw her as something more than a tool.
