Chapter 8: Mouth Stretched Again
The command hung in the air, coarse and absolute. Marie remained on her knees, the taste of Noah still coating her tongue, the evidence of him drying on her skin. Marcus loomed, his thick fingers still hovering near her jaw.
Noah shifted his weight. He saw the tremor in Marie’s shoulders, the glassy shock in her eyes. Going from the deep, controlled violation of his own use to the raw, bullish demand of Marcus was a seismic shift. She might break. Or she might flee, and the game would be over.
“Marcus,” Noah said, his voice calm, a counterpoint to the tension. He kept his arms crossed, a spectator who knew all the players. “She’s not one of your bar girls. Look at her. You rush it, you’ll spoil it. Start slow. Make her want it.”
Marcus glowered, but a sly, considering look crept into his eyes. He glanced down at Marie, at her heaving chest, the mess on her front. A slow, ugly smile spread. “Slow, huh? Yeah. Okay. I can do slow.” He nudged her shoulder with his knee. “Get up. On the bench.”
Marie moved mechanically, her limbs feeling foreign. She pushed herself up, her muscles protesting, and shuffled to the low, cushioned bench that ran along the aft deck. The orange sun was a fat ember on the horizon, setting the entire scene in a hellish, beautiful glow.
“Sit,” Marcus ordered. When she did, he moved in front of her, his work-roughened hands gripping her knees. He pushed them apart without ceremony, spreading her thighs wide open on the smooth vinyl. The cooling evening air whispered against her inner skin, a shocking intimacy. She was exposed, utterly, to both of them.
Marcus crouched, his face level with her crotch. He hooked his thumbs into the sides of her soaked bikini bottoms and yanked them down to her ankles in one rough motion. She was bare now. Noah, leaning against the helm station, watched silently, his expression unreadable.
“Fuck me,” Marcus breathed, his gaze fixed between her legs. He didn’t touch her yet. He just stared. “Look at that. Soaked. Absolutely fucking dripping. For me? Or for pretty boy over there?”
Marie said nothing. She couldn’t. Her body was a traitor, a slick, swollen testament to arousal that shamed her mind.
“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus answered his own question, his voice dropping to a guttural rasp. “I’m gonna eat that married pussy until you forget your own name.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He plunged his head forward.
The first contact wasn’t gentle. It was a broad, hot wetness as his mouth covered her entirely. Then she felt it—his tongue. It wasn’t a delicate probe. It was thick, relentless, and shockingly long. It pushed into her without finesse, a blunt, living intrusion that filled her in a way no tongue ever had.
“Oh, God!” The cry was ripped from her, loud and sharp in the quiet cove. It was too much. It felt like a small, soft cock was driving into her, except this one moved with a sinuous, knowing life of its own.
It twisted inside her, curling and searching. It retreated, then plunged back in, deeper, battering a spot that made her hips jerk off the bench. He was fucking her with his tongue, deep and thorough, the wet, sloppy sounds obscenely loud.
The dam inside Marie burst. The reserved wife, the loyal partner, shattered under the brutal, expert assault.
“Fuck! Oh, fucking hell, right there!” she screamed, her hands flying to tangle in his greasy hair, not to push him away but to grind herself harder against his face. “Don’t stop! Jesus Christ, don’t you fucking stop!”
Every blasphemy, every crude word she’d ever stifled, came pouring out in a screaming litany. She cursed the sky, the sea, his magnificent tongue. He found her clit with the broad, flat part of his muscle and pressed, and she saw white light behind her eyelids.
She was climbing, screaming, her back arching, seconds from unraveling completely.
He lifted his head.
The sudden absence was a physical agony. Her pussy clenched around nothing, aching, throbbing with denied release. His face was slick with her juices, his breath coming hard.
“Please,” she begged, the word raw and broken. “Please, Marcus, don’t stop, I need to come, please, just let me come!”
He grinned, a predator with his prey twitching on the hook, and plunged back in.
This time, he focused on her clit, sucking the swollen nub into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, then lashing it with brutal, rapid strokes. It was too intense, a direct wire to every nerve ending she possessed.
She exploded. The orgasm tore through her with vicious, unconcerned force, a detonation that locked her muscles and ripped a ragged, endless scream from her throat. It pulsed out of her in waves, her body convulsing against his mouth as he drank her down.
She sank back against the bench, boneless, wrecked, her chest heaving. Spent.
Marcus lifted his head, licking his lips. He watched her for a moment, then dove back in.
“Wha—no…” Marie gasped, but it was a weak protest. His tongue was on her again, relentless, stirring the oversensitive, overstimulated flesh. He was devouring her, consuming her, not allowing a moment of recovery. The sensation skated the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain, and her shattered body, hungry and confused, tipped back over into desire.
He built her up again, slower this time, a torturous, meticulous reconstruction of the peak she’d just fallen from. When the second orgasm hit, it was different—deeper, fuller, a rolling submersion rather than a sharp explosion. She didn’t scream this time. She sobbed. Tears of overwhelming sensation mixed with the sweat on her temples as her hips ground weakly against his face in helpless, rhythmic spasms.
Finally, he pulled away. He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at her as she lay splayed and trembling on the bench, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Fuck,” Marcus panted, a note of genuine awe in his voice. “I could spend hours down there. You taste like fucking heaven, sweetheart.”
Marie could only manage shallow, ragged gulps of air. Her world had been reduced to the throbbing between her legs and the metallic taste of her own screams in her throat.
Marcus unbuckled his belt, the leather rasping loud in the twilight. He pushed his shorts and boxers down, freeing his erection. It was thick, veined, and ruddy with need, bobbing heavily between his legs.
He took a step closer, until the swollen tip was level with her lips.
“My turn,” he said, his voice leaving no room for anything but obedience. “Suck my cock. And swallow every fucking drop.”