Page 79 of Damsel in Disguise

Her lips close around the tip, soft and cautious, suction light before she releases me with a wet sound that hits harder than it should.

Then she’s repeating the filthy action.

Again.

And again.

I’m so fucking starved for a real human touch that such a small innocent act is driving me insane. It’s pathetic.

Ariella moves with an innocence that doesn’t belong in something this filthy.

My fingers curl into my palms, feeling the heat of the contrast, nails biting into skin as I fight to keep my body from reacting, from thrusting my hips into her touch, from taking control the way I want to.

The moment she’s satisfied—after dragging her tongue over me with deliberate thoroughness to clean off Delilah from me—she shifts.

Small hand wraps around my shaft, her grip firm but not demanding, and she starts to stroke me in slow, languid motions. Up—clockwise. Down—anticlockwise.

Her other hand slips lower, fingers brushing over my balls, massaging them lightly.

I feel my pulse spiking violently. My breathing shortens, slipping into shallow bursts I can’t fully suppress. Damn it.

She notices.

Her pace adjusts—faster now, but still careful, still controlled enough to make it seem nothing more than another dream-induced episode where my body is reacting this on its own imagination.

If only she knew how close I am to ruining that illusion.

I’m genuinely surprised I haven’t already grabbed her yet—haven’t fisted her hair and forced her down until she chokes on my cock and the control shifts back where it truly belongs.

The pressure builds fast.

A tight, coiling sensation gathers at the base of my spine, spreading upward, sharpening into something impossible to ignore. I’m getting close.

The thought of finishing anywhere but down her throat immediately turns sour. If she pulls away now, I swear I’ll turn pleasure into pain for her.

But she doesn’t. Instead, Ariella leans in further, adjusting her position beneath the blanket, and takes me deeper—far deeper than before, gagging in the process.

Not perfect, not practiced, but enough to push me over the edge.

A low, restrained groan finally breaks free, urging my body to give in with my hips subconsciously flexing upward.

The release hits hard and spills into her mouth. She holds steady, taking it enthusiastically and swallowing every single drop.

A dark satisfaction blooms in my chest at that. My good little kitty.

A few stray drops slip past her lips, trailing down onto my skin. The feeling—what little I can make out of it—creases my glabella.

She isn’t slipping away tonight.

I force myself to stay still for a little longer, letting her linger beneath the covers as if savoring the moment.

Then she pulls back. The blanket shifts again as she emerges from underneath it. Her eyes suck on my face.

For a brief second, I almost think she’s caught me—caught the way I’ve been watching her this entire time. But instead, she lifts her hand and licks it clean like a cat grooming itself.

The image stitches into my mind.

I don’t wait for another second. Before she can retreat the way she always does, I open my eyes fully.