Page 44 of Elijah’s Whim

Elijah made a big pile with my hair on the pillow above my head and moved in closer with his muscular body. He started making a trail of wet kisses behind my ear and worked his way down my neck and across my shoulder.

“Lie on your stomach, beauty.”

When I willingly complied, I knew the war was over for me. That request, that moment in time. If I thought I was still holding my own in a battle with him, I hoisted my white flag right there and then.

I just wanted to feel good. And my God, did this man know how to make it all feel so damn good. His lips were melting me everywhere they touched. I let him move my body like a puppet—just arrange me to suit his plan. I still lay on my stomach, and Elijah rested my arms beside my body, palms facing the ceiling so he could draw my robe down my body and expose my back completely.

“You are perfection, Hannah. Just look at you,” he said with admiration. He kissed every inch of my exposed back, biting and licking and sucking until I was moaning into the bedding.

Elijah covered my body with his, pressing me into the mattress with his weight. He growled into my ear and ground his dick into my ass crack at the same time.

“Can you come for me, beauty? I smell how turned on you are. Touch yourself or let me touch you.”

“Elijah,” I whimpered.

His words and questions were so dirty they ramped up my heat further and further. I was going to combust any second.

“Yeah, baby?”

“It feels so good. My God.”

“What’s it going to be? Are you going to show me how you like it? Or do you want me to find out for myself? One of us is rubbing that wet cunt right now, beautiful.”

I moaned at his filthy promise just as my robe hit the ground. How that happened, I didn’t even know. Nor did I care.

“Spread your legs for me,” he demanded, and I followed his instructions without hesitating. I was so aroused, I was beyond shame or embarrassment. I needed satisfaction more than my next breath.

“Now, tell me,” he said while cupping my mound with his large hand and pressing the heel against my wet folds.

God, I needed friction, but when I tried to buck my hips, he stilled my movement.

“Tell you what?” I nearly shouted the question, approaching desperate territory.

“Watch yourself, lady.”

“Please. Please.”

“Tell me two things first.”

“I’ll do it myself. Move your hand. I’ll just do it.”

“No. You gave up that option.”

I whimpered into the sheets, mumbling, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

The bastard leaned close to my ear and asked, “What happens to liars at my house?”

“Elijah! No! Stop fucking around. You’re not being fair. Or nice, at all. What do you want to know? Please don’t stop touching me. Please don’t stop. I’ll be good now.”

“I know you will, beautiful.”

“Touch me,” I whispered, feeling insane with need. It had been so long. So damn long.

“How often do you do this for yourself? Be honest.”

“Not very often.”

“Not very often… What does that mean to you? Once a week? Once a month? Once a quarter? Once a year? Pick one.”