Then his mouth.
He shifted lower, spread my thighs wider, and that textured tongue found my clit. I screamed. The sensation was overwhelming, too much, exactly enough. He licked me with long strokes while his fingers kept pumping, kept hitting that spot, kept driving me higher.
Five.
Six.
I lost count, losing myself, letting go of everything except the pleasure and the pressure and the desperate, aching need for more.
His tongue worked my clit while his fingers fucked me. The wet sounds filled the chamber, obscene evidence of how thoroughly he was taking me apart. I felt his breath, hot against my oversensitive flesh and could feel the ridges of his tongue catching on my swollen bud.
Seven.
Maybe eight. I couldn't tell anymore where one orgasm ended and the next began. It was all one continuous wave of pleasure, cresting and falling and cresting again.
His cock rubbed against my thigh. Hot and hard and massive, pressed against my skin while he worked me with his mouth. Leaking fluid. Ready.
"Now," I gasped. "Please. I need you inside me."
He lifted his head. His mouth was wet with my arousal, glistening in the low light. Those amber eyes watched me with something that might have been restraint about to break.
"Yes?"
"Yes. Please. I'm asking. I'm choosing. Please."
He moved up my body, positioning himself between my spread thighs. His cock pressed against my entrance, hot and textured and impossibly large.
Finally.Finally.
He pushed forward. Just the tip. The stretch was incredible, burning and perfect, my body opening for him even as it protested the size. I gasped, grabbed his arms, tried to pull him deeper.
"More. Please. Give me more."
He didn't move. Just held there, the head of his cock barely inside me, pulsing with his heartbeat.
"Tell me why you're here."
The words didn't register at first. I was too lost in sensation, too desperate for him to finish what he'd started.
"What?"
"Tell me why you're here. Not the debt. The real reason."
I stared up at him. His cock was inside me. Just barely, just the head, but inside me. And he was asking questions.
"The debt," I said. "I told you. 180,000 credits. The portal clears it."
"That's the excuse. That's what you tell yourself." He shifted slightly, and the head of his cock pressed deeper. I moaned, pushing my hips up, trying to take more of him. His hands on my hips held me still.
"Tell me the real reason."
"I don't—I can't—" I was crying again. From frustration. From need. From something deeper that his question hadtouched. "Please. Please just fuck me. I'll tell you anything after. Just please?—"
"Now." His voice was implacable. Patient. The voice of someone who had waited twenty cycles and would wait twenty more if that's what it took. "Tell me now, or I stop."
"You can't stop." I was sobbing. "You can't. I'll die. I can't take anymore."
"You won't die. You'll suffer. And tomorrow I'll ask again."
