Page 81 of The Fake Divination Offense
I run my nose from his shoulder to his neck, inhaling. The faint whiff of apples. The even fainter scent of me. That won’t do.
“And what was that?”
“F-fuck me, I want you to fuck me.” His jaw is slack, words toppling out in a rush.
My smile stretches his skin, tugs what’s already taut, so when I sink my teeth into the juncture of neck and shoulder and suck, he has no choice but to cry out at the sting.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I tell him, licking the spot, more filthy promise than apology. “Think you can take me? I don’t want to hurt you.”
I thrust against him, my cock rubbing over his stomach, his body chain adding an extra bite. The abrading pull is so good I grip his hair for leverage and suck at his neck again.
Bel cries out, hands finally leaving the vanity to scramble for purchase on my hips, pulling me closer to him. “I can. I can, I promise.”
“How do you know? No one’s fucked you before, right? How do you know what you can handle?”
“I—I’ve fucked myself. Toys. With toys. I know how to take it. I can take you, I promise, I swear I can. I’ll be so good for you, please.”
“Shh, sweetheart.” I brush his hair behind his ear. Gods, I’m going to need to watch him fuck himself one day. “Toys are a bit different, though. What makes you think you can handleme?”
He blinks up at me, looking so thoroughly put out at the idea that I might not fuck him that I can’t help but grin.
“You know you can handle me,” I answer for him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek, “because you know I’ll take care of you. Don’t you?”
He moans, his hips rocking against my leg even as I press him into the counter. “Yes. Yes.”
“You trust me to do that? To make it good for you?”
“Gods, Orok,yes. Can you—justfuck me.”
“So impatient. I thought you were mine? I thought you wanted to belong to me?”
He whines when I lean into him hard enough that he’s trapped to the vanity, can’t rock his hips, can’t get relief.
“I do. I am.Orok—”
“Hm. I love it when you whine for me.” I nip his ear and he digs his nails into my skin. “But let me take care of you. Let me take care of what’s mine.”
He’s practically in a daze as I guide him to the shower. The whole room is a steamy sauna by now, and the water is scalding; I adjust it to the perfect temperature and pull him under the spray. He tries to go onto his toes to kiss me, but I push him down, grab a washcloth from the ledge, and get to work cleaning him with almost clinical efficiency.
I don’t linger or tease him, which seems to be its own kind of tease; he’s a whimpering, fidgeting mess in no time, his arms reaching for me, his legs shifting restlessly. His cock hasn’t flagged and neither has mine, not with the way he can never seem to stop andfeel, always has to be moving, always has to be expelling his emotions in a dance all his own.
I spin him around. His feet slip on the tiles, but I keep him steady until his palms slap the wall.
“Stay,” I tell him, then kick his legs wider.
His head drops between his lifted hands, that body chain perfectly following the ridges of his spine and fanning out across his back. He shivers, even with the warm water spraying down on us both.
“Want to wash you,” he gasps.
I kiss his shoulder blade. “Later, sweetheart. For now…”
There’s one place I haven’t washed yet, and I get to work on it, taking the cloth and dipping it between the globes of his ass. He moans low in his throat and thrusts back against me, but I’m clinical here, too. Okay, maybe I spend a little extra time on it, enough that he’s twisting his hips, trying to get away, or get closer, ormovein that enthralling way of his.
I want to make him dance. I want him to be so overcome with pleasure it has no choice but to burst out of him in his art.
This is torture for me, too. This is torture and poetry in perfect equilibrium.
The cloth splats on the shower’s floor and I lower to my knees, hold him open, and slide my tongue from his taint to the bulge of his tail.
