Page 36 of Somno Slave

My thumb drags across her cheek hard enough to shift her face sideways against the pillow. I watch for resistance even unconscious.

Her lips part. Just enough.

A breath slips out.

I take in the rise and fall of her chest. The curve of her breasts shifts with each breath. My thumb brushes just beneath, testing the weight, the warmth, before trailing around her dark areolas, revelling in the way her nipples pebble immediately. They stand tall, proud, almost desperate to be touched next. I obey. My fingers and thumb hover over her rosebuds.

I clamp down hard until I’m sure she’ll bruise for me.

Her body jolts. A broken sound slips from her throat. Soft and unwilling, but dangerously familiar.

I hold her there a second longer than I should, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my touch, the way her body tightens, fights, and then gives.

“So responsive,” I murmur.

Her muscles tighten beneath my touch, a sharp, involuntary reaction.

I drop to my knees, fingers locking around her hips, and then, I pull. I drag her toward me like she’s nothing more than a ragdoll to do what I please. My fingers hook into her knickers,removing them in one swift movement, and then I position her thighs on either side of my shoulders.

I drink in the sight of her exposed pussy, glistening with a faint sheen of moisture. She’s shaven, and that surprises me. I can’t imagine she shows it off to many people.

Control bleeds into everything she does. Eventhisis regulated.

A slow, satisfied tension pulls through me.

I press my finger against her. The heat of her hits me instantly. I collect it on the pads of my fingers, smearing it higher. Her body answers before she’s aware of it, the slick warmth gathering, betraying her in soft, glistening proof.

I keep my movements slow at first—agonisingly slow—dragging it out until it borders on cruelty. Until I know it’s too much. Until her body is straining for more.

I draw a curve into her.

And another.

Her thighs jerk, breath catching as the pattern repeats, faster now, more insistent, until it stops being random and the lines spell my name.

My other hand settles lower, pressing in. Her hole resists. Of course she does. She’s tight, not used to being taken like this.

That needs to change.

I force my way through. Her body fights it, rejects it, and the second I’m inside, she clamps down hard, her walls tightening around me like a reflex she can’t control.

A sound tears out of her. Louder now, panicked.

I continue tracing my name into her, again and again, deliberate enough that if she were awake—if she were aware—she might almost understand what I’m doing to her.

Marking her.

Her fingers twitch at her side, curling as if she might fight it, might push me away, but she’s too far under.

Too deep.

The rhythm builds, faster now, harder, until she has no choice but to follow it, her body chasing something it doesn’t understand. She gasps, a scream tearing free.

“You make such pretty sounds in your sleep.” I murmur, curling my fingers hard.

It pushes her over the edge. Her hips jerk. Her breath fractures.

And then she hits it.