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The next thing I know, he withdraws his fingers and my ass ends up leaning against the table.
I love it when he pulls on my piercing, or when his mouth sucks on my breast. I love it when he pushes inside me. Then I feel my thong slide down my legs as his fevering thrusts pick up their pace.
“All day, when you walk around without your thong,” he whispers in my ear, shoving his cock to the brink of my walls, “when your lips touch each other with each step you take in those fucking heels, remember me inside you.”
I whimper. Damon should come with a side-effect warning because he’s a walking, talking drug, waiting to turn my world upside down.
The thrusting stops; the tie loosens and settles on my neck. I catch my breath because he looks as out of control as I do, and I haven’t even run my fingers through his hair yet.
“Shh, you have to be quiet,” he says against my mouth.
Slowly, he rocks himself inside, and I clasp a hand over my mouth to stay silent.
Damon unfastens his leather belt, passing it around my neck. “Do you trust me?”
I nod. “Don’t kill me.”
Surprise and something else I can’t muster roam through his eyes. “Never.”
The belt tightens and loosens underneath my jawline with every thrust. This is unlike anything I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I’ve never taken sex to this level with anyone I’ve been with, except for Damon.
And I have no regrets.
I want to try it all. Everything he’s learned, every position.
I love it when he squeezes my neck tight. I love the possession screaming from his hooded eyes. Not the pain living behind them, but the acceptance that has taken over in the past few weeks.
He’s accepted that he wants me.
The only remaining question: To what extent?
“Damon.”
“Hmm?”
I grab on to his hair roughly, feeling dizzy with every tight stroke of the belt against my neck. “I want to try ...everythingwith you.”
He drops the belt and picks up my legs, which instinctively wrap around his torso. One of his hands roughly holds on to my hip while the other holds me by the nape.
He kisses me viciously. There’s passion in his kiss, so much so you’d think he’s trying to brand my lips with his, brand the memory of our bodies thrusting, writhing against each other.
He keeps telling me he’s not a good man.
If this is what dancing with the devil feels like, I’d like to volunteer to do so repeatedly for the rest of my life. Because I’d bask in the beauty of hell just to get a taste of Damon. Just to feel his body against mine, inside of mine.
“It’s like you were made for me.”
“I am. I’m yours.”
He curses at my words, ramping up the speed. He knows I’m going to come. He doesn’t kiss me; he watches as my lips part and my body trembles. I feel the muscles of my inside walls spasm like never before.
And he witnesses it all. My lips, my tits, the belt around my neck. He stares at my sex as if it’s the last one he’ll ever see.
And I lose my mind. I absolutely lose it—completely. Every particle of my brain, every cell, is working on delivering the perfect orgasm.
My body shakes. I can’t speak. My vision isn’t acting normal, as if I smoked a few joints. Damon continues plunging himself within me so my hips move in accord to his movements.
“Come inside,” I say, my breathy voice breaking the silence. “I want to feel your cum leaking down my legs.”
