Page 41 of Beautiful Savage
She moans louder. Her pussy clenches around me at the thought.
Her hands reach back. One finds my thigh. Nails dig in deep enough to draw blood. The pain makes me thrust harder, deeper. My cock hits that spot inside her that makes her whole body shake.
"Right there," she gasps. "Fuck, right fucking there."
I angle my hips. Hit that spot with every thrust now. Her pussy starts to flutter around my cock. Warning me she's close. I reach around, find her clit with my thumb, circle it while I fuck her. The dual stimulation has her crying out. Her whole body trembles.
"Come for me," I command. "Come on my cock. Let anyone watching see you fall apart."
Her second orgasm tears through her. She screams this time. No holding back. Her pussy clamps down on my cock so hard I see stars. Her whole body convulses. Her cunt gushes around me, soaking my balls. Ten seconds of her pussy milking my cock. Trying to pull my own release from me.
"That's it, fuck, you're perfect," I groan, still thrusting through her orgasm.
Then I let myself finish. The release that's been building for four weeks. For nine years. For my whole fucking life. My balls draw up tight and then I'm coming. Pumping rope after rope of cum deep inside her. My orgasm hits so hard my vision whites out at the edges. My whole body shakes with the force of it. I growl her name against her shoulder. Bite down hard on the spot where neck meets shoulder. Mark her as mine while I fill her with my cum.
"Mine," I snarl against her skin. "Fucking mine."
We stay frozen for a moment. Both breathing hard. My cock still pulsing inside her. The last spurts of cum filling her already flooded pussy. She's still pressed against the window. Me behind her. Both of us visible to the theoretical watchers in the alley below. My cum already starts to leak out around my softening cock. Drips down her thighs.
I pull out carefully. Watch my cum spill from her pussy, marking her thighs. Turn her to face me. Her back is against the glass now. The cool surface probably shocking against herheated skin. I'm close enough that I can see every detail of her flushed face. Smell our combined arousal.
She looks at me. Really looks. The way she has been since that first morning in her cottage. No sliding away. No flinching. Just those dark eyes steady on mine. Seeing everything I am and wanting it anyway.
16 - Daphne
The ache between my thighs pulls me from sleep. That sweet, deep throb that means Gunner fucked me properly against the window. Three in the morning, and instead of satisfied, I’m already wet again. My body craves him like an addiction I don’t want to cure.
We've been asleep maybe two hours. The apartment drowns in darkness except for moonlight slanting through the south window. Silver light transforms the familiar space into something otherworldly, something that belongs to the night version of us.
He's beside me in his bed, actually asleep for once. Not the vigilant half-consciousness he's maintained for twenty-eight days, but real sleep. His arm drapes heavy across my stomach, possessive even unconscious. I can feel him against my hip through the sheet, soft now but still impressive. The sheet sits low on his waist. Moonlight reveals what darkness usually hides.
His face first. Without the controlled expression he wears during waking hours, he looks younger. Not softer. Nothing about this man could be soft. But unguarded in a way that pulls something tight under my ribs and makes my nipples tighten against nothing. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow catches silver light, a clean line through dark hair. His broken nose should make him ugly but somehow doesn't. Dark stubble already shadows his jaw. I imagine how it would feel between my thighs, rough and perfect.
His chest rises and falls with deep breaths. The Saint Michael tattoo on his right forearm flexes slightly where his arm crosses my body. Patron saint of warriors, of justice. The ink looks old, settled into his skin like it belongs there. Above it, the full sleeve continues with military imagery I can't quite parse in this light. Skulls and wings and dates that mean something to someone, probably to the dead.
The scars tell their own stories. A long one across his left shoulder, silver-white with age. Another at his ribs, puckered like a bullet wound. Each mark is evidence of a life that's cost him. Wetness gathers between my legs at the thought of this dangerous man choosing gentleness with me.
I'm the only person who's seen him like this. The exclusivity of it settles into my bones and makes me clench with need.
My eyes drift to the desk chair across the room. Empty. The shirt with my painted handprint is gone. Filed away or thrown out, I don't know which. Its absence feels like the end of something and the beginning of something else.
The moonlight through the window calls to something wild in me. The same part that painted my body in his garden's flowers, that danced for him when I should have been afraid. My pussy throbs insistently. The decision is made somewhere below thought. I want to be outside. I want the moon on my skin. I want him awake with me, inside me under the stars.
I touch his shoulder, gentle but deliberate. "Wake up. I want to see the garden."
His eyes open immediately, finding mine in the darkness. The transition from sleep to alertness takes maybe two seconds. His body doesn't tense, but I feel the shift. From unconscious to operational in a heartbeat. His cock stirs against my hip, already answering me before he's fully awake.
He studies my face, reading something there. "The residential windows overlook the garden. Adrian's on the top floor. Staff rooms overlook it too."
The risk calculation is obvious. Any of them could look out and see us. The thought makes my pussy clench with dangerous arousal. He's weighing operational security against my request.
I don't push. Just wait, feeling my wetness gather, knowing he'll choose me.
He gets out of bed.
The choice lands hard in my chest. I watch him pull on jeans and a black t-shirt, movements efficient in the darkness. I find one of his shirts in the closet, pull it over my head. It falls almost to my knees, soft from wear. My sensitive nipples brush against the fabric. My underwear from the floor. Nothing else. We're both barefoot.
The service stairs echo under our feet, concrete cold against my skin. The flickering bulb on the second landing still hasn't been fixed. Down through the back hallway. Past the dark security office where he usually sits. Past the kitchen that still smells faintly of tonight's prep. The building sleeps around us while my body hums with need.
