Page 103 of Black Light: Cured

of me inside her. Throwing everything away, I walk over to the sink and wash my hands, needing

these extra moments to calm down.

I don’t want to fuck her. Not yet. I have other plans in mind before that happens. Stepping back

between her splayed thighs, I pull out a slim butt plug and lube it up before putting the cold tip at the

entrance of her ass.

“I’m going to fuck you here, but be grateful… I’m going to train your ass first instead of just taking

it. I’m going to stretch you out, fill you up with my tools until you’re begging for my cock.”

Pushing it forward, I watch the myriad expressions as they cross her face. Nothing says

discomfort, so I continue to slide it in, groaning at the resistance as it reverberates through the metal.

Her hole stretches wide over the swell of the small plug until finally her body swallows it deep

inside, letting the flared base rest on the outside.

“God, Lila, do you have any fucking idea what you do to me?”

Her face pinkens for a moment as a pretty blush crosses her cheeks. “I’m beginning to have some

idea.” There’s a hint of laughter in her voice, an easy teasing that I haven’t had with anyone else.

I freeze. Lila has been a first for me in many ways, and this alone proves that she’s getting under

my skin where no one else has. Am I going to end up losing my heart to her? Again, that small niggle

of concern forces its way into my brain. It would be different if I had concrete plans to stay here, but

I’m always looking for the next best thing. My career requires it, but what if Lila is the next best thing

for me?

Dipping my head down, I swipe my tongue along her clit, replacing her laugh with a gasp. I ease

two fingers inside her, and slide them in and out, curling the digits until the pads of my fingertips

graze that spot deep inside that drives her wild.

After all the orgasms I gave her at the hotel, part of me thought the novelty of watching her climax

would wear off, but it hasn’t. And, honestly, I don’t think it ever will. The feel of her muscles

clamping down on my fingers, the breathless whines and moans that spill out into the air, I crave all of

it—she’s my own personal addiction.

It doesn’t take her long to get there, and I continue to pump in and out, forcing her to ride the

orgasms for as long as I can before she squirms and tries to pull away. She lies there, gasping, her

chest heaving as I leave her to the afterglow.

Reaching for my tray, I grab the next instrument of torture, my Wartenberg pinwheel. My lips curl