Chapter 8: Double Domination
A devilish smile spread across her face as she swatted his hands away as if he were nothing more than a bothersome fly. Seraphina devoured him. Greedier now. “I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough, farm boy.” Her head bobbed up and down so fast it made Beau’s toes curl. He wanted to pull himself free but her mouth was like a vacuum that pulled him in deeper with every twirl of her talented tongue. His orgasm rose quickly and Seraphina could tell. “Give it to me. Be a good boy and cum down your mistress’ throat. I want every drop.” Beau shoved her head down as ropes of cum shot from him. She swallowed him greedily. As the aftershocks subsided, and his eyes began to focus, he saw Seraphina staring at him with satisfaction and victory in her eyes. It ignited something in him. He picked her up and threw her on her couch. “Your turn,” he said, kissing between her thighs.
The victory in her eyes flickered, replaced by a flash of surprise that thrilled him more than her touch had. Her sofa was cool, black leather against her feverish skin. He didn’t give her time to reclaim the narrative.
His mouth was on her, a proprietary claim, and his technique was an act of utter reconquest. This wasn’t worship; it was a meticulous, devastating audit. He mapped her with his tongue, learned the rhythms of her hitched breaths, the subtle tension in her thighs that meant she was fighting the ascent. He used the flat of his tongue, then the precise point, alternating between broad, slow strokes and focused, ruthless circles. He huffed a warm laugh against her, the vibration wringing a choked sound from her throat.
“Still want to call the shots, Sera?” he murmured, not lifting his head.
Her hand fisted in his dark hair, but the pull lacked its earlier conviction. “I… I didn’t say stop.”
“Didn’t say please, either.”
He dragged a single finger up her inner thigh, a ghost of a touch, and she jerked. He added a second finger, circling her entrance, coated in her own slick evidence. He pressed inside, just to the first knuckle, and withdrew. Again. A shallow, maddening tease.
“Beau—” His name was a gasp.
“That’s better.” He finally took pity, sinking both fingers deep inside her, curling them just so, while his mouth closed over her clit.
The orgasm tore through her with shocking speed. It was a sharp, clawing thing that arched her off the leather, a raw cry echoing in her sterile, beautiful condo. He gentled his mouth, sipping lightly, drawing out the pulses until she slumped back, trembling.
He rose over her, hovering on his knees between her splayed legs. He was still hard, gleaming with her wetness and his own renewed need. He watched her, chest heaving, the city lights painting her spent form in streaks of silver and shadow.
“One,” he said softly.
Her hazy eyes sharpened. “What?”
“That was one.” He leaned down, bracing a hand by her head, his face inches from hers. He smelled of her, of sex, of the coffee they’d shared that morning in his sun-drenched kitchen. “You swallowed me whole. Made me your good boy.” He brushed her tangled strawberry-blonde hair from her damp forehead. “I aim to return the favor. Until you’re that puddled mess you tried to make me. Until you forget which one of us is supposed to be in charge.”
A challenge, not a threat. It glittered between them.
Seraphina’s lips, swollen and damp, curved. The defeat was gone, burned away by a hotter, more competitive flame. She wrapped a leg around his waist, her heel digging into the small of his back.
“Big talk for a farm boy who came in under three minutes,” she breathed, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Beau’s answering smile was all sharp, promise. “We’re just getting warmed up.”
He didn’t enter her. Not yet. Instead, he trailed his mouth down her neck, to the frantic pulse at the base of her throat, then lower, across the swell of her breast, taking a peaked nipple into his mouth with a languorous suck. His hands roamed, rediscovering the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip, as if memorizing her in this vulnerable state. He was rebuilding the tension from the ashes of her first climax, brick by meticulous brick.
Her fingers scrabbled at his shoulders, no longer pushing but pulling. “Stop… stop playing.”
He lifted his head. “Make me.”
The dare hung in the air, thick as the humidity before a storm. Seraphina moved, a surge of desperate strength, rolling them until she straddled him. She poised herself above him, her gaze locked on his, a queen attempting to reclaim her throne. She lowered herself, taking him in an excruciating, slow inch, a gasp caught between her teeth.
She began to move, a ruthless, grinding rhythm, her eyes daring him to break. Beau’s hands clamped on her hips, not to guide, but to feel the muscles working beneath her skin. He let her have this, let her think she was setting the pace again, his body thrumming with the effort of restraint.
He watched the façade crack. Saw the moment the deliberate roll of her hips became a stutter, the moment her triumphant gaze grew unfocused, internal. Her breath came in ragged pants.
“Beau… I…”
“You what?” he gritted out, his own control fraying.
“I can’t…”
He thrust up into her, hard, burying himself to the hilt. The sound she made was pure shattered glass. “You can,” he growled, flipping her beneath him once more, pinning her hands above her head. “And you will. Again.”
The second climax took her screaming, her body bowing against his, nails scratching at his imprisoning grip. He followed her over, his own release a rough, claiming punctuation mark, her name a raw syllable in the dark.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their struggling breaths. The panoramic city viewed their exhaustion, indifferent and bright.
Seraphina stirred first, her limbs liquid. She turned her head on the cushion. In the dim light, her eyes were fathomless. “Two,” she whispered, the word barely audible.
Beau, still half-sprawled over her, felt a slow smile spread across his face. He brushed his lips against her shoulder, a kiss that was both acknowledgement and promise.
The game was far from over. It had only just begun.
It had only just begun.
Silence pooled between them, thick and syrupy, broken only by the distant hum of the city far below her windows. Their sweat cooled on skin that hummed with a raw, oversensitive awareness. Every breath felt like a negotiated treaty.
Then Seraphina moved.
It was a sudden, fluid shove against his shoulder, fueled by a reservoir of will he hadn’t fully drained. Beau, spent and heavy-limbed, rolled onto his back with a soft grunt, the leather couch groaning beneath him. She was on him before he could reclaim the initiative, her body a pale shimmer in the low light.
She crawled over him with a predator’s deliberate grace. Her lips were a brand against his sternum, a fleeting press on his abdomen, each kiss a tiny, devastating claim staking a path through the landscape of his exhaustion. They weren’t gentle so much as they were precise, a slow fuse being lit along his spine.
She settled atop him, her face hovering over his. Her strawberry-blonde hair curtained their faces, a world smelling of sex and her perfume. Her blue-green eyes were darkened, glittering with a fathomless challenge.
“You still want me to call you Daddy?” Her voice was a rasp, stripped of its usual polished edge. She shifted her hips, aligning herself. “Or do you want Mistress to make you feel good again?”
She rubbed herself along the length of him, a slow, slick friction that made them both gasp. Their combined wetness, a mix of his release and her own, soaked them, a visceral proof of the previous rounds. He was hardening again, a painful, almost reluctant response drawn from sheer competitive biology.
He managed a breathless laugh, his hands coming up to grip her waist. “You tell me. You’re the one on top.”
“Damn right I am.” She lowered herself onto him, an excruciating, millimeter-by-millimeter descent that had his jaw clenching. He was over-sensitive, every nerve firing a protest that was also a plea. She felt impossibly tight, a scorching, velvet vice.
She began to move, a slow, grinding rotation of her hips. There was no frantic pace left in them, only this deep, aching attrition. Each small rock was a question. Each shallow retreat, a taunt.
Beau’s head fell back, a cord standing out in his neck. His vision blurred at the edges. He could feel another climax building, a distant, ominous tremor in the base of his spine. It felt less like pleasure and more like a system being pushed toward catastrophic failure.
“Look at me,” she demanded, her own breath hitching.
He forced his eyes open, meeting her gaze. Her expression was a mask of fierce concentration, her lips parted. She was fighting the same climb, using the sight of his unraveling as her anchor.
“Who…” she started, a shudder wracking through her, “…who breaks first?”
He answered by surging up to meet her, driving deeper, a final, potent thrust that shattered her composed rhythm. A broken cry was torn from her throat. Her inner muscles clutched at him, a rhythmic, desperate pulsing that tipped him over the edge.
His own release was a dry, wrenching heave, wringing a sharp groan from his chest. It was too much, a raw scrape of sensation that bordered on pain. She collapsed onto him, her body trembling violently, her forehead damp against his collarbone.
They lay there, utterly spent, fused together in a sticky, trembling tableau. The only sound was their ragged, synchronized breathing. The competitive fire guttered out, leaving behind a hollowed, humming exhaustion. They were both empty. Over-sensitive. Spent.
Eventually, Seraphina, with a monumental effort, peeled herself away and slid onto the couch beside him. The cool air hit the place where they’d been joined, a shocking contrast. She didn’t look at him, just stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling.
“Three,” Beau whispered into the quiet, the word almost soundless.
A faint, breathless chuckle escaped her. “Go to hell, farm boy.”
He turned his head on the leather. “Already there.” He found her hand on the cushion between them and laced his fingers through hers. They were both sticky, their grip clumsy. She didn’t pull away.
She didn’t pull away. Their joined hands were the only point of contact in the heavy quiet, a bridge over the wreckage they’d made of each other. The city’s light slowly bled from cool silver to the warm gold of streetlamps far below.
Time became something they measured in breaths, in the gradual slowing of their heartbeats. The chill of the leather finally seeped into their skin, a nagging discomfort that, minute by minute, outweighed the glorious fatigue. An hour passed in a blink, in an eternity.
Beau stirred first, the muscles in his arm protesting as he gently disengaged his fingers. He pushed himself up on an elbow, the movement sending a dull ache through his shoulders. He looked down at her. Seraphina’s eyes were closed, her face smoothed of its fierce cunning, looking younger and curiously untethered.
“Sera,” he said, his voice gravelly from disuse.
Her eyes opened. That deep blue-green was hazy, unfocused for a second before sharpening back into awareness. She looked at the hand he now extended toward her.
Always the gentleman, Beau arose first and extended his hand to Seraphina. She looked from his palm to his face, her expression unreadable. Then she took it, her grip surprisingly firm, and let him pull her upright. She swayed on unsteady legs and stumbled into his chest. His arms came around her automatically, holding her until her balance solidified.
They stood there in her dark living room, clinging not from passion but from sheer physical necessity. The grand piano was a hulking shadow beside them.
“How about that wine?” Beau’s voice rumbled against her ear.
Seraphina gave a weak, breathy laugh into his shoulder. “Christ, yes.”
He kept an arm around her waist, guiding their shaky progression across the cool floor to the kitchen’s stark marble island. He found the bottle he’d brought—a rich Cabernet—and a corkscrew in a drawer as if it was his place. The pop of the cork was obscenely loud in the quiet.
She took the bottle from him, her fingers brushing his. She didn’t bother with getting glasses. She tilted her head back and took several long, unladylike gulps, her throat working. A trickle of dark red escaped the corner of her mouth and traced a path down her neck. She wiped it with the back of her hand, then gestured the bottle to Beau.
Without speaking a word he drank, his eyes locked on hers. He watched her watch his throat work. When he was done, he set the bottle down with a soft clink.
She grabbed his hand again, her grip insistent, and guided him towards the hallway bathroom. Their legs were still uncooperative, a clumsy, shared limp. “C’mon,” she murmured, her voice low. “Let’s get you cleaned up, farm boy.”
He smiled, a real one, tired and unguarded. Then he simply bent and scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. She gasped, her arms looping around his neck. “Show off,” she whispered, but nestled her head against his shoulder.
He carried her into the spacious bathroom, setting her down gently on the closed toilet lid. He reached into the glass-walled shower and turned the knobs. Steam began to billow, fogging the mirrors.
“After you,” he said, gesturing with a mock-formal flourish.
The shower was the start of their aftercare. It was a silent, methodical ritual. They stepped under the hot spray together, and the water sluiced away the salt and stickiness, painting rivulets of brown and gold down the drain. There was no agenda now, no competition.
He took the loofah and a bar of her expensive, sandalwood-scented soap. He worked up a lather and began washing her back with slow, circular strokes, his touch firm but utterly devoid of demand. He moved to her shoulders, kneading the tension there until she sighed and let her head fall forward. She returned the favor, her slender fingers massaging shampoo into his scalp, scrubbing away the scent of her couch and her skin.
They washed each other thoroughly, carefully, with a focus that was completely intimate. Every gentle gaze held a hint of something unfamiliar—a longing that had nothing to do with conquest. He rinsed the soap from her stomach, his hand smoothing over the subtle curve. She traced the lines of the tattoo on his bicep, her touch curious, not possessive.
They toweled each other off with the same quiet care, the Egyptian cotton soft and absorbing. In her bedroom, they fell into her vast bed, the sheets cool and crisp. They lay together wrapped in each other’s arms and legs, a tangle of warm, clean limbs. His nose was buried in her damp hair; her hand rested over the steady beat of his heart.
The city’s murmur was a distant lullaby. In the dark, free from the need to win or defy, a thought entered their separate minds but at the same time, with the clarity of a truth too obvious to ignore: I have never met anyone like this.
Beau’s arm tightened around her. Seraphina’s fingers curled against his chest.
I need more of this.