Chapter 20: Sire's tongue works in long, slow strokes through Souline's slick folds, swirling around her swollen clit before plunging deep inside her. 'Taste that?' he growls against her wet flesh, 'That's my baby making you sweeter.' He adds two thick fingers, curling them just right as his mouth sucks her clit relentlessly, drinking down her orgasm when she screams his name.
The water ran cold, a sharp shock against their overheated skin. Sire didn’t flinch. He just held her there, his release still deep inside her, his body a cage of warmth against the chilling spray. Finally, with a shuddering breath, he turned off the tap. The silence in the steam-filled bathroom was absolute, broken only by their ragged breathing and the drip of water from the showerhead.
He reached for a thick, black towel, wrapping it around her first, rubbing her skin through the fabric with a rough tenderness. He dried himself quickly, then scooped her up again, her body pliant and exhausted in his arms. He carried her from the steam into the cool, dim sanctuary of his bedroom. The last of the sunset was a bloody smear over the city skyline beyond the wall of windows, painting everything in hues of deep orange and bruised purple.
He laid her down on the black silk sheets, the material cool and slippery against her back. She watched him, her eyes dark pools in the fading light. He stood at the foot of the bed, his gaze traveling the length of her body—the damp curls clinging to her forehead, the full, heavy breasts with their darkened nipples, the magnificent, taut dome of her belly, the thatch of dark hair at the junction of her thick thighs.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His intent was a physical pressure in the room.
He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. His hands, large and possessive, slid under her thighs, lifting them, opening her completely to his gaze. The air from the vent kissed her damp, sensitive flesh, making her shiver. He leaned down, his dreads falling forward, and let his breath wash over her first. A hot, intimate caress.
“So fucking beautiful,” he murmured, the words a low vibration against her skin. “My beautiful woman.”
Then he lowered his mouth and licked her, a slow, flat stroke from her opening to the swollen bud of her clit. It wasn’t hungry or frantic. It was deliberate, worshipful. A rediscovery. Her hips jerked off the bed, a soft cry escaping her lips.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his hands tightening on her thighs, holding her in place. “Let me taste you. All of you.”
He feasted. He used the broad of his tongue to lap at her folds, gathering her wetness, humming with pleasure at the taste. He circled her entrance, dipping the tip inside briefly, making her gasp, before returning to focus on her clit. He sucked it gently into his mouth, applying a rhythmic pressure that had her back arching, the silk sheets twisting in her fists.
“Sire… God…”
He released her with a soft pop. “You taste like heaven and mine,” he growled, before diving back in. He ate her with a focused, devotional intensity, his nose nudging against her, his tongue working her with a skill that felt both practiced and utterly new. He alternated between slow, languid strokes and quick, fluttering flicks, reading her body’s responses like a map. One of his hands left her thigh, his thumb finding her other entrance, pressing against the tight rosette in a promise that made her whimper.
She was unraveling quickly, the coils of pleasure tightening low in her belly. Her breaths came in short, sharp pants. Her hands flew to his head, not to push him away, but to hold him there, her fingers tangling in his dreads. The city lights began to wink on below, casting a grid of tiny illuminations across his back and her splayed legs.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice strangled.
He redoubled his efforts, sucking hard, his tongue a relentless, perfect pressure. The orgasm crashed over her, silent at first, a stunning, white-hot detonation that locked her muscles, then broke in a wave of tremors and a broken cry. He didn’t let up, gentling his mouth but continuing to lap at her through the sensitivity, drawing out every last shudder until she was pushing weakly at his head, overstimulated and spent.
He kissed his way up her body, his lips trailing over the swell of her belly, each breast, the hollow of her throat, finally finding her mouth. She could taste herself on his tongue, salty and musky and intimate. He was hard again, his erection pressing insistently against her hip.
He shifted, positioning himself. He looked into her eyes, his own almost black with need. “Tell me you want me,” he breathed, the head of his cock nudging at her soaked, swollen opening. “Just once. Tell me.”
She was raw, open, her body still humming. She saw the vulnerability beneath the demand. This wasn’t the Sire who took. This was the Sire who needed to be wanted. “I want you,” she whispered, the truth of it leaving her exposed. “I want you, Sire.”
A groan ripped from his chest. He pushed inside, a single, deep, complete thrust that buried him to the hilt. They both cried out. He held himself there, embedded in her, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling.
“This,” he gasped. “This is where I belong. Right here. In this pussy.” He began to move, a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that was less about friction and more about fusion. Each stroke was a claiming, a prayer, a homecoming. The silk whispered beneath them. He kissed her, his mouth desperate and sweet.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his pace increasing, the bed starting to creak in a steady, driving tempo. “You feel how deep I am? I’m never leaving. Never fucking leaving you again.”
She wrapped her legs high around his waist, taking him deeper, meeting every thrust. The pleasure built again, a different kind this time, deeper, more emotional, tied to the words he was growling against her skin—promises, filth, love, all tangled together.
“This cunt is my life,” he snarled, pistoning into her, his control fraying. “You hear me? My life. And his life.” He dropped a hand between them, palming her belly as he fucked her. “I’m gonna fill you up every day. Gonna love you every day. Gonna be better every day.”
It was the vow, raw and unvarnished, that pushed her over another edge. Her inner muscles clamped around him in rhythmic pulses, a tight, wet fist milking his length. He shouted, a raw, broken sound, and followed, his release pumping into her in hot, endless spurts as he hammered home, his body shuddering violently with the force of it.
He collapsed, careful even in his abandon to shift his weight to the side, keeping off her belly. They lay tangled, slick with sweat and spent, the only sound their heaving breaths and the distant hum of the city. The room was dark now, the only light coming from the electric grid below.
A long time passed. He stirred first, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before slipping from the bed. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and cleaned her with a gentleness that made her throat tighten. He pulled the black silk sheets over them both, then drew her back against his chest, his hand splayed over her stomach once more.
They didn’t speak. They just breathed together in the dark.
When the digital clock on his nightstand glowed 11:07, he finally moved. “Come on,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m taking you home.”
She wanted to protest. To say she could stay. The words stuck in her throat. This was a test, and she knew it. For both of them.
He dressed her in his clothes—a soft cotton t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants that she had to roll at the waist. He dressed himself in jeans and a hoodie. The domesticity of it was more intimate than the sex. He led her to the car, his hand resting on the small of her back.
The drive to her apartment was quiet. His right hand rested on her thigh, his thumb making slow, absent circles on the soft fabric covering her skin. Not a demand. A connection. A quiet claim of presence. She stared out at the blur of streetlights, her body still humming, her heart a tangled, aching knot.
He parked, came around to open her door, and walked her to her building, up the stairs, to her door. The familiarity of the ritual—the food, the doorstep, the leaving—was there, but everything was different now. The air between them was charged with what they had shared, with the son they had seen, with the unspoken future hanging in the balance.
She fumbled with her keys. He took them from her, his fingers brushing hers, and unlocked the door for her. He pushed it open but didn’t cross the threshold.
He turned to face her. In the dim hallway light, his face was all sharp angles and deep shadows. He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.
“I love you,” he said, the words clear and solid, no longer a confession but a fact. “More than anything in this world.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, just beside the corner of her mouth. The touch was tender, final. A goodbye for now.
“Get some sleep, baby,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin.
Then he took a step back. And another. His hands went into the pockets of his hoodie. He gave her a small, heartbreaking nod.
He turned and walked down the hallway. His footsteps echoed, firm and deliberate, fading with each step. He didn’t look back.
Souline stood in her open doorway, the scent of him on her clothes, the feel of him still between her thighs, the memory of his worship a brand on her soul. She watched his broad back until he disappeared around the corner at the end of the hall.
The silence of her apartment yawned behind her, vast and empty.
He was gone.
This time, she was going to have to decide. He had to let her.