His hands squeeze my thighs, and he leans in. I don’t even realize when my apron skirt rides up, my legs already spread by the rope. And when his exhale moves down to ghost my labia, I nearly break my vow of silence. Because holy Mary, mother of?—
That feelssogood.
These last days have been a mess, and yes, he made most of that mess. I haven’t forgiven him. Not in my head. But his mouth—his impossible, filthy, expert mouth—might just be the nearest thing to a salve for the gulf between us.
My hips buck on reflex as he breathes out again, and he’s on me like a beast who’s been starving. He grabs my ass and pulls me up toward him as he opens that insane jaw and begins to devour me. His tongue slides into me, long and hot, while his lips cover his teeth at my clit. His tongue dives straight for that blind, needy spot deeper in me.
It is the best head anyone could dream up and then some. He slurps and nips and covers me with that rough tongue until I’m clawing uselessly at the furs, trying to get nearer but trapped by my ropes. It’s maddeningly perfect. I want more, and I’m already drowning.
I can’t even tell when it starts, but pleasure ignites almost as soon as his mouth lands. It’s like being lit from the inside out. Wait—no, this is it—this is the one—my brain scrambles as the world narrows to heat and pressure and the impossible architecture of his mouth on me.
I scrabble, fingers tangling in rope, because if I don’t hold onto something, the orgasm will literally tear me apart.
A high, keening scream rips free from my throat, and he only eats faster, growling between my legs as the light of my orgasm explodes through me in electric shards. My legs flutter and shake so hard.
“Another,” he barks as he lifts his head only long enough to demand it.
I try to shake my head no, but my skull hits the mattress. The second his tongue finds that swollen nub again, I am screaming. Fifteen seconds later, I’m on the mountain top again, breathless and burned through and somehow still twitching.
He rises, like maybe he’s done, and I think my body can’t possibly take more. Maybe this is the last. Maybe I’m finally emptied and I can collapse and sleep.
Then I feel him reposition—hands prying my cheeks wider—and his tongue is not just back at my clit but sweeping a filthy, reverent path from my clit, down my slit, and all the way to the shy dark rim of my asshole.
“Abaddon!” I screech because right now there are no civilized noises left in my throat.
“That’s right,” he rumbles, voice coming from the very center of him. “Keep screaming my name.”
Then the probing comes. His tongue is at my anus—so wrong, so dirty, and so astonishingly effective. The tips of his wings bend in and begin to flutter against my clit, fast as a hummingbird and softer than any toy I’ve ever known.
I squirt. I come so hard I feel it in the back of my teeth.
He chuckles, that low, pleased sound that becomes the soundtrack to the next two orgasms as he eats me like he’s learned the language of my body and is fluent in every filthy dialect. He pries and presses, fingers splitting me so he can taste the darkest parts, promising between mouthfuls, “I will fuck you here, soon. I will take all of you, and you will beg me for more.”
Shuddering and wracked and drowning in aftershocks, I nod because in this impossible, burning second, the answer isyes. Yes to everything. I want it all.
I try to breathe, and instead I quake again with another aftershock, and a little ridiculous, terrified voice in my head whispers,Hope I won’t live to regret this. But even as I think it, I don’t mean it. I mean the opposite. I mean,give me more.
FORTY-FIVE
HANNAH
I waketo Abaddon’s heat at my side. Being tied down like a roast last night made sleeping face-up awkward, but he wore me out so hard I conked out seconds after the last wave hit and slept like a log. Now I’m awake and shockingly—humiliatingly—feel amazing. Except I’m starving. And I have to pee.
“You have to let me up at some point, you do realize that, right?” I say when he stirs, the whole bed creaking with him.
“Fine,” he growls and then does nothing. Not helpful.
“I’m serious. I have to pee.” Still nothing. He’s a monster and a brick of stubbornness.
“And I’m hungry. You knocked me up, and pregnant women need to eat!” I blurt, and yes, of course, that gets him moving.
He shifts, finally, and begins untying my ankles. Relief should be the main emotion here, but the way his fingers linger, massaging the sore skin, makes my pulse stutter. Then he kisses the place where the rope chafed—tiny, considerate mouth-presses all along my Achilles—and I want to scream at him forbeing absurdly tender when I’m desperate to pee and also find a sandwich.
He frees the second ankle and climbs up my body like a slow, deliberate threat. Kisses at my knees, at my thighs, his wicked tongue making small heat-trails, and every step he takes toward my center perversely turns the pressure in my bladder into a building heat between my thighs.
Once my ankles are loosened, my legs begin to move as if they know better than I do. They lift and wrap around his lower back beneath those vast wings. My voice cracks into a whisper. “Fuck me,” I say, and for once the words are not a dare but a surrender.
His head lifts and his eyes search mine. I realize with a small, ridiculous jolt that this is what he’s wanted since the rift—for me to ask. For me to beg. I bite my lip and try again, more urgently. “Fuck me, Abaddon. I want you to fuck me.”
