Page 44 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
When he pushes back inside, I brace himself for another hard invasion.
Instead he holds himself in my mouth, enough to make me feel full but still with room to breathe. Still able to move my tongue. And that’s what I do, flicking lightly along the ridge I can feel.
He swears softly. “That’s beautiful. I’m going to take you deeper. Do you think you can take it?”
Deeper? God, I don’t know if I can. The question is a course of electricity through my body. And the answer has to be yes. However it will fit. However it will feel—yes.
All I can do is nod, my lips still stretched around him.
He nods, his eyes intense, a dark sky with flashing lightning. He pushes in again, slowly, inexorably. Breaching a barrier I didn’t know existed. My body revolts against the intrusion, bucking on its own. It doesn’t make him flinch, my fight. He expected it. He accepts it, keeping his cock in my throat even as I convulse around him, reflexes trying to push him out.
My hands are up around my head, pressing back against the door in tight fists. Slowly I unclench them. Even with Damon’s cock in my throat, I make my body relax.
“That’s right,” he murmurs. “So beautiful like that. So beautiful, and you’re mine.”
He grasps the base of his cock as he pulls away. With the heavy tip resting on my tongue, he strokes himself hard and fast. Once. Twice. And then he comes in large pulses, thick salt pushing against the back of my tongue, so intense it makes my eyes water. I swallow again and again, but there’s still more of him. The taste of him so deep inside me I’ll never forget it.
I pant against the door as he pulls away and zips back up. I half expect him to walk away from me. To gently set me aside so he can leave like he wanted to do.
Instead he crouches in front of me, his eyes knowing and sympathetic. He slips two fingers into my panties, reaching down until he finds the wet core of me. “You’re hurting, aren’t you?”
And it’s true, I am. He said he would hurt me. My ache is sharp and relentless, only heightened by the calloused fingertips he rubs against my clit.
“Too much,” I say, my hips rocking to get away, to get closer.
He silences me with a kiss, sliding his tongue against mine. He must taste himself in my mouth. I can only taste him as he devours me. As he thrusts two fingers inside me and rubs his thumb against my clit, hard enough that it hurts—and still I don’t want him to stop.
There are starbursts in my eyes as he pushes me over the edge. I gasp into his mouth, hoping he can understand the message of my body—the need and the relief. His touch carries me through a long and airless orgasm as he murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry. It’s over now.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When I step out of the bed and breakfast, Damon is leaning against one of the black SUVs. There’s something incongruous about the sharp cut of his suit and the wide-open sky. About the shiny glint of metal set against a brownish rural expanse.
His expression doesn’t change as I come outside and approach him.
I’m wearing one of my old well-washed pair of jeans and a Smith College shirt this morning. I wish I had cargo pants like the mercenaries. Or at least fuck-you boots like Hiro wears. Instead I’ve got faded sneakers that are coming apart at the seams.
“You waited for me,” I say, unable to hide my surprise.
Without answering he steps away from the vehicle and holds the door open.
I climb into the passenger seat, marveling at the chivalry. It’s a far cry from mocking me from the throne of a sex party. Then again maybe it’s not so different. Damon has always been a rare combination of refined depravity.
He sits in the driver seat, pulling out of the dirt driveway in a smooth motion. I realize with a start that I’ve never seen him drive. Partly that’s because I’ve gone to see him at the Den. Even when we leave Damon has drivers. He has security. He has house cleaners and staff, the way only rich people do.
No cook, though. That part he does himself, and I very much missed his cooking as I ate the oversweet muffins and stale coffee served in the floral dining room this morning.
“How long is the drive?” I ask as the road levels out to a single lane each way.
“Two hours and twelve minutes.”
That’s very exact. “Have you been here before?”
“No, but I’ve seen the schematics.”
“Oh. Can I see them?”
He gives me a sideways look. “They’re in the back.”
I rummage through a black duffel bag before finding a roll of yellow paper with thick and thin lines. Wharton County Prison. My throat tightens. “I thought you said this was an asylum.”
