Chapter 39: Devouring the Bride
The cold stone bite of the balcony was a distant memory, replaced by the yielding softness of the mattress beneath my knees. Gena landed on her back with a soft ‘oof’, her plum silk dress a forgotten puddle somewhere near the balcony door. Moonlight streamed through the open curtains, painting silver streaks across her flushed skin, still gleaming faintly with sweat from my earlier… attentions. Her chest heaved, breaths ragged and shallow, violet eyes wide and dark, fixed on me with a mixture of awe and desperate hunger.
No hesitation. No gentle preamble. The fire she’d ignited on the balcony roared hotter, wilder, inside this plush, flower-scented cage. My gaze locked onto the apex of her thighs, the glistening evidence of her arousal, the swollen, perfect folds already parted slightly. Mine. All mine.
I surged forward, planting my hands on either side of her hips. My knees nudged hers apart, spreading her wide open before the balcony chill could even touch her core. The scent of her, rich musk mingling with that dark, underlying jasmine, flooded my senses, thick and heady. My fingers, still slick from her earlier release, didn’t tease. They dove.
Two fingers plunged deep into her molten heat. She gasped, a sharp, choked sound, her back arching violently off the sheets. Her inner muscles clenched around me instantly, a silken, vice-like grip that stole my breath. Wet. So impossibly wet and hot. I curled my fingers, finding that rough, textured spot inside her, and pressed hard.
“Oh! FUCK! Amy!” Her cry was raw, echoing off the bedroom walls. Her hands flew to my shoulders, nails digging in through my thin shirt. Her hips bucked, trying to ride my hand, seeking more friction, deeper pressure.
I leaned down, my face inches from hers. Her breath hit my lips, hot and sweet. The silver ring Gena gave me – the one marking her proposal – felt cool against my skin. My thumb found her clit, swollen and hard as a pebble, and began circling it relentlessly, matching the deep, driving rhythm of my fingers inside her.
“You’re mine, wife,” I growled, the words scraping low in my throat, thick with possession. “Every gasp. Every fucking tremor. Mine.” I watched her face contort, pleasure bordering on pain, her lips parted, eyes squeezed shut then flying open, pupils blown wide, galaxies collapsing.
“Yours!” she gasped, the word breaking on a sob. “Always yours! Please… don’t stop… need…”
Her plea snapped something primal. Mine. To claim. To consume. I tore my fingers from her clenching heat, ignoring her whimper of protest. My hands gripped her thighs, hauling her hips higher, spreading her wider still. Her glistening pussy was fully exposed, swollen folds glistening under the lamplight, her clit a hard, desperate beacon.
I lowered my head. Not gently. Not teasingly. I opened my mouth and swallowed her whole.
My lips sealed over her entire swollen mound. My tongue flattened against her clit, pressing hard, swirling in tight, furious circles. The taste of her flooded my mouth – salt, musk, that addictive sweetness – stronger, deeper than before. A groan vibrated against her flesh, muffled by my own hunger.
Gena screamed. A raw, ragged sound that tore from her throat. Her back arched impossibly high, lifting her entire torso off the bed, supported only by her shoulders and my hands gripping her thighs. Her fingers tangled violently in my short hair, pulling, holding my face hard against her. Her thighs trembled violently, trying to clamp around my head, but I held her open, pinned.
“YES! FUCK! RIGHT THERE! DON’T STOP! DON’T EVER STOP!” Her voice was hoarse, desperate, riding the edge of hysteria. Her hips pistoned against my mouth, fucking my face with abandon. I sucked her clit hard into my mouth, my tongue flicking over the sensitive tip with rapid, brutal precision. My nose pressed into her curls, breathing her in, drowning in her scent, her taste, her heat.
I felt it building inside her, a seismic pressure. Her muscles tightened like coiled springs beneath my hands. Her cries became wordless, high-pitched keening. Her grip on my hair was painful, anchoring.
Then she shattered.
Her body locked rigid. A guttural cry ripped from her lungs, raw and primal, echoing in the room. Her cunt pulsed violently around nothing, clenching rhythmically, drenching my chin, my neck, in a fresh flood of hot release. I kept sucking, kept licking, gentling my touch but never stopping, drawing out the convulsions that racked her frame. Her taste was overwhelming, a drug I couldn’t get enough of.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the tremors subsided. Her grip on my hair loosened, fingers going slack. Her arched back collapsed onto the bed with a soft thud. Her legs fell open, limp and trembling. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid gasps. Her eyes were closed, lashes wet, her face slack with utter, obliterated bliss.
I lifted my head slowly. My lips were slick, swollen. My chin dripped. I looked down at her, utterly ravished, utterly mine. The silver ring on her finger, my gift, glinted dully in the lamplight. The scent of sex and jasmine hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint perfume of the flowers. Outside, the mountains were silent sentinels, indifferent to the storm that had just raged within these walls.
Kneeling between her splayed legs, tasting her essence, feeling the fierce, possessive burn deep in my own core flare hotter than ever, I knew the true wilderness wasn't the cold peaks outside. It was this consuming, terrifying fire between us. And I was willingly burning alive.