As I lean over him, he moans around me, and the vibrations through my body add to the music I hear in my head. I run my fingers down his tight belly, up his V-line. It’s so well-defined and tempting that I find myself leaning down to lick along it. The answering hum from Oliver reverberates right through me, and I decide that this is the place.
I press a hand into the crease of his thigh to keep him still, and wipe another swab of disinfectant down the line of his muscle, over the masterpiece of his Adonis belt. My work will hurt even more here, with the lack of fat covering over the muscle.
With that lovely thought, I settle the metal tip against his skin and continue.
CHAPTER21
Oliver
If playing the part of Lord Arden’s music sheet is part of being his service sub, I love service a whole lot more than I ever thought possible. The screaming of my nerve ends took me by surprise; I’ve been scratched before, but not like this—he worked up to it over my chest, but now, as he engraves more lines over my lower belly, a trail of fire lights up in the wake of the silver quill. Within moments, the repetitive motion is genuinely painful, and I’m breathing harder and harder.
He pauses to check in with me, squeezing my hand, since my mouth is full of his dick.
Squeezing back twice, hard, I urge him to continue.
The sensation builds to a crescendo, and by the time he’s pulled out of my mouth, I’m floating somewhere up around the ceiling.
“I’d like to turn off the light,” he says to me. “So that I can—”
“Take off my mask,” I murmur. “Please.”
In the peaceful dark that follows, he lets me suck him for as long as I like, my head still hanging over the end of the bed, pleasuring him until my tongue feels almost numb. He takes over at last, a hand on my throat again as he slides deep into it, face-fucking me slowly,usingme, praising me as he does it for how good I am, taking him like this.
I would have settled for that for the rest of the night, the blissful sense of sexual service—but he pulls out, gently wipes down my spit-soaked face in the dark, and then rearranges me in the center of the bed.
“You’ve been sobeautifullyobedient, Oliver. If you want to push back, though—”
“No,” I whisper hoarsely, my throat feeling strange and empty as the words come out. “Please, Elliot, just…” I’m not even sure what I mean.
Butheseems to know.
He slides on top of me, rutting against me in a slow, steady rhythm. Our combined sweat makes the marks on my belly sting, and I buck up against him, searching for more sensation. He kisses me all over my face, and then—without warning—turns me over and pushes into my ass with only a handful of lube to help.
I gasp and struggle as he impales me, but he’s balls-deep in seconds, hiking my hips back toward him with firm hands. I shake uncontrollably as he starts drilling into me, reaching under with a slick hand to milk me as he does. It’s not long before my orgasm washes out of me in a sweet tide, ebbing and flowing as he continues working in my body.
He pulls out and flips me over on the bed again before I even know what’s happening. I’m still panting and leaking with the aftershocks as, with a few final strokes of his cock, he paints his cum across me, rubbing it firmly into the marks he scratched into my skin.
I feel almostbrandedby him, as though he’s left something of himself in my flesh that will never leave, whether or not the actual marks fade.
His aftercare is as meticulous as always; there’s a lot of Neosporin involved, and bandages, and then he snuggles up with me until I feel like I’m more firmly back in my body.
“In the morning, I’ll ask Zee to have a look at your marks,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead. “Make sure they’re—”
“Oh,please, no,” I burst out. “I’m sure they’re fine, you took every precaution. And besides, I’d like them to be for justus. If—if you don’t mind.”
He’s silent for a moment, his face an unreadable pale blur in the darkness of the room, and then says, “How could I possibly mind?”
* * *
I wake smiling the next morning, although my body is aching and I wince as I stretch, my skin complaining around the notes that have been scratched into me. But I can’t wait to see them in the morning light. I love the idea of being marked up by Elliot, of a special bond between us.
I feel around for my mask with regret, and slide it back on with a sigh.
I willalwaysremember yesterday. That incredible piece he played—and then for him to tell me it was forme—a night of pain and pleasure that extended into the small hours—
I want to jump out of bed and examine my marks, but with his eyes still closed, Elliot is reaching for me, with a smile of his own and a rumble of appreciation. He pulls me close, spooning into me, and I let him do it, rearranging into his embrace and closing my own eyes again for a moment.
“Good morning, Oliver,” he says at last, his voice gravelly but affectionate.
