Page 38 of Where the Snakes Sleep

The question is so gentle I want to sob. He’s giving me the choice. I want both. I want to be ruined, and I want to be held. I reach for him, greedy, not even pretending to play it cool.

“Show me,” I murmur brokenly.

His eyes flash, and he unbuttons his pants with one hand, the other tracing fire up my thigh. The sound of fabric sliding open is loud in the quiet. He pulls himself out—thick, dark, curving just a little to the left, already wet at the tip. My brain blue-screens.

He notices the way I stare and grins, unrepentant. “You like?” I can’t speak, so I nod, honest and dumb. He presses the tip against my lips, his hand cradling the back of my skull, and whispers, “Open.”

I do.

The first taste is salt and something uniquely, aggressively him. He smears the bead of himself over my lower lip, painting me with it, then strokes the head against my tongue. It’s so much hotter, so much heavier than I expected. I try to take more, but he pulls back, teasing. My tongue chases after him, and I realize I’m whining, needy, and desperate, and he’s eating it up.

“Très bien,” he purrs, rubbing his cock over my lips, up to the bridge of my nose and back down. Very good. “You are perfect like this. Feral, hungry. Comme un chat sauvage. C’est ce que tu veux? Tu veux être mon petit chaton?” Like a wild cat. Is that what you want? You want to be my little kitten?

I think he just said something about a cat, but honestly, at this point, I couldn’t care less. He could say anything in that sexy voice of his, literally, and it’d turn me on.

He thumbs my jaw open wider, and I suck at the tip, savoring the taste. My jaw aches, but I don’t care. I want all of him. He lets me, for a minute, then pulls away, smearing his pre all over my flushed face.

He then stands, stroking himself with long, lazy movements as he looks down at me, and the power dynamic is crystal fucking clear. I want to be consumed. I want to be obliterated.

He kneels again, slides his cock along my cheek, and says, “Do you want this inside you?”

The question detonates in my chest. I nod, unable to articulate anything else. Luckily, Camille seems to read my mind and pulls a condom from his back pocket. I don’t even have time to think about why he happens to have a condom on him before I’m pulled into a trance as he tears the packet open with his teeth and rolls the condom down his massive length.

I brace myself, drunk on the smell and the want and the knowledge that this is happening, that he wants me, that I am about to get absolutely destroyed. My hips are already lifting from the couch, desperate for more, when Camille slides back down my body and bends over me with one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other stroking himself as he lines up against my hole.

He glances up, searching my face for permission. I nod so hard I’m surprised my head doesn’t come loose, and it’s almost funny how careful he is in that split second.

Then he pushes, and it’s no longer funny; it’s everything.

The burn is overwhelming. He’s not just thick; he’s impossible. The blunt head of his cock parts me, and I grip at the cushions, digging in deep, not sure if I want to run or take it like a goddamn champion.

I do both.

I make a noise that’s more animal than human, and Camille groans, hips flexing, as he inches deeper.

“It’s too—” I gasp, unable to finish the sentence.

He doesn’t stop, but he doesn’t force it either. He holds me there, letting me feel the stretch, letting my body adjust. “Shhh,” he whispers, teeth scraping at my ear. “You can take it. Breathe, Ryan. Breathe and let me in.”

I believe him, because I want to. Because I need to. I force myself to follow his direction and breathe, to let the pain melt into something else, something that’s simultaneously worse and better, like a fever.

His cock is so big it feels like he’s punching through every boundary I’ve ever had, every last bit of resistance, and I want to scream from it.

He starts to move, slow and shallow, just the tip rocking in and out. The pressure is so much, I can’t even process the pleasure yet—I’m riding the edge of panic, of too much, and it blurs into want. He pets my thigh soothingly as he fucks me open, and I realize I’m crying, tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes without my permission.

Camille licks them away, not mocking, just collecting them with gentle laps of his tongue.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs.

He snaps his hips, and the next inch slides in, the pop of it making me buck, involuntary, wild. My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails raking down his back, and he groans, the sound raw and guttural.

“Again,” he says. “Mark me.”

I do. I can’t help it. Every time he pushes deeper, I claw at him, and he loves it. I want to tell him to stop, to go slower, but I want the opposite more. I want to be ruined.

He holds me open with one hand, the other pinning my wrists above my head as he finally bottoms out, flush to the hilt. It hurts, but I love it, and when he grinds into me, making little circles with his hips, the pain explodes into something searing and bright.

I’m flooded, awash, and leaking, my body clenching around this insane pressure, and Camille is relentless now, grinding into me, releasing my wrists to instead wrap his hand around my throat, and bending to bite the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can only survive, and my pulse is beating so fast I can’t tell if I’m moaning or sobbing or just blowing air, lost in the addictive, annihilating rhythm.