Page 170 of Saint Céline
“Shut up,” she breathed, but her voice cracked when I slid two fingers inside her.
She was tight, hot, and clenched around me like she both wanted me there and hated how good it felt. I curled my fingers, stroked the spot that made her moan loud and broken. Her head fell back. I sucked one nipple into my mouth, hard, then the other, leaving dark marks across the soft skin of her breasts while I kept working her with my fingers.
“Vincent—oh god—”
She hated me. She wanted me. She chose this. And every time the choice rose up between us again, she took it harder, like proving she could want me made the anger sharper and the pleasure deeper.
“Come on my fingers first,” I told her. “Let me feel how much you need this even though you hate me for it.”
She came with a sharp cry, thighs shaking, pussy pulsing hard around my fingers. I kept stroking her through it, drawing it out until she was panting and trembling.
She did not give me time to recover. She shoved me back, climbed on top, and yanked my pants open. My cock sprang free, hard and aching. She wrapped her hand around me and stroked once, twice.
“You think you own me now?” she said, her voice rough. “Think you can just take what you want?”
I gripped her hips. “I think you’re going to ride my cock and still tell me you hate me while you come on it.”
She sank down onto me in one slow motion. Her pussy was still fluttering from the first orgasm, so wet and tight that the head of my cock met resistance at her entrance. I thrust up hard anyway, burying myself to the hilt in one deep stroke. She moaned loudly, the sound raw and surprised, her walls squeezing me so perfectly I had to grit my teeth to keep from losing it right then.
“Fuck, Céline,” I groaned. “Your pussy feels so good. So fucking tight and wet around me.”
She started moving, riding me hard, hands braced on my chest. Every time she sank I met her with a thrust, driving deeper. I sat up, caught one breast in my mouth, sucked hard enough to leave another mark, then did the same to the other. She cried out, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
“Harder,” she gasped. “Don’t you dare be gentle.”
I flipped us so she was on her back, hooked one of her legs over my shoulder, and fucked her deeper. The angle made her moan louder, each thrust dragging against that spot inside her.
“You feel that?” I said against her ear. “That’s me inside you. Exactly where I wanted to be since the first time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me.”
“Shut up and make me come again,” she snapped, but her voice broke on the last word.
I reached between us and rubbed her clit with my thumb while I drove into her. Her second orgasm hit harder than thefirst. She arched off the bed, pussy clenching around my cock in tight, rhythmic pulses, moaning my name like it hurt to say it. I kept thrusting through it, chasing my own release, until the pressure became too much. I came deep inside her with a low groan, hips stuttering against hers.
We stayed locked together, breathing hard, skin damp. The rain still fell against the windows. She did not move away. She stayed in my lap when I pulled her up, forehead against my collarbone, hands still loosely fisted in my shirt. The anger had not left. I could feel it in the way she breathed. But she had chosen this. She had locked the door with me inside. And for tonight, that was enough.
For that night, there was only Selena beneath my hands, no longer performing indifference, no longer mistaking control for safety, no longer pretending she did not want to be wanted by someone who had seen the truth of her damage and reached for her anyway.
I brushed her hair back from her face, and she let me. For now.
32
Céline
I woke up naked in Vincent’s bed with the sheet twisted around my waist and Miss Astoria screaming outside the locked door. The ceiling looked wrong—too high, too clean, no familiar crack above the light in my dorm room. Then the mattress shifted, and everything came back at once.
His apartment. The dinner. The way I had kissed him first. The door I locked with both of us on the inside.
My body remembered the rest before my mind could push it away. The ache between my thighs. The faint soreness in my hips from the second time, when he had pulled me on top and let me ride him until I came again, angry and shaking. The third time had been slower, almost careful, sometime after midnight when neither of us could sleep. He had slid into me from behind, one hand over my mouth so the sound stayed between us, his voice low against my ear telling me how tight I still felt even after Ihad already come twice. I had bitten his palm and come anyway, hating how good it felt, hating how much I needed it.
I lay still and stared at the pale ceiling while the ache settled deeper. I had let him touch me like that three times in one night. The marks on my breasts and throat were still visible in the grey morning light filtering through the curtains. My lips felt swollen. My skin carried the faint smell of him.
Miss Astoria screamed again.
I closed my eyes.
“You are ruining a perfectly good morning, Miss Astoria.”
She scratched harder.
