Chapter 33: Silas drags his tongue through Izzy's soaked folds with obscene wet noises, his nose grinding against her swollen clit as she tries to stay still for Elijah's feeding - her desperate whimpers turning to broken sobs when he suddenly bites her inner thigh and growls 'Squirt for me, Sweetheart' while plunging two thick fingers into her fluttering hole, making her spray across his beard just as her milk lets down violently into their son's mouth.
The farmhouse kitchen was steeped in the deep silence of midnight, broken only by the soft, rhythmic sucking sounds from the corner. Izzy leaned over the wide, scarred butcher block, her body a tired curve in the flickering candlelight. Elijah, two years old and insatiable, nursed greedily, his fists kneading the swollen fullness of her breast. Her milk let down with a familiar ache, a warm rush that mirrored the heavier, deeper ache between her legs. She was already showing again, a firm, rounded swell beneath her nightdress that housed their sixth son.
She felt him before she saw him. A shift in the air, a presence that filled the doorway. Silas moved through the shadows like part of them, his bare feet silent on the cool tiles. The candle flame danced as he passed, catching the sinuous lines of the tattoos on his torso, the hard planes of his chest. He came up behind her, not touching her at first, just letting his heat seep into her back.
He watched the baby feed, his dark eyes unreadable. Then his hands, heavy and sure, settled on her hips. He pushed her nightdress up, bunching the fabric around her waist. The cool night air touched her bare skin, raising goosebumps. He nudged her thighs apart with his knee, a silent, firm command.
"Isaac's barely three months old," she whispered, a weak protest meant only to hear the tension in her own voice. "This one… he's gonna be born hungry."
Silas didn't answer with words. He bent, his dreads brushing the backs of her thighs, and buried his face between her legs. His tongue, flat and hot, speared into her without preamble. She gasped, her hands splaying on the rough wood of the counter to steady herself. Elijah grunted, disturbed by the sudden movement, his sucking becoming frantic for a moment before resuming its steady rhythm.
Silas ate her with a brute hunger, his tongue fucking into her dripping cunt with a pace that was almost violent. He held her hips pinned, her ass tilted up to his mouth, giving him total access. The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen—the wet, slapping rhythm of his tongue, her sharp, hitched breaths, the contented sucks of their son. Pleasure, sharp and immediate, warred with the deep, stretched feeling of her recent birth. It was too soon, her body too raw, and that knowledge only made the sensations more acute, more forbidden.
"Oh, fuck, Silas," she moaned, her head dropping forward. A thin stream of milk escaped Elijah’s lips and traced a cool path down her breast. Silas’s tongue found her clit, circling it with a brutal precision that made her knees buckle. He growled against her, the vibration echoing through her-sensitive flesh. He was claiming her, rewriting the memory of childbirth with this raw, primal act. He was reminding her body who it belonged to, even as it nourished his child.
He bit down lightly on her swollen bud, and she cried out, her milk spraying in a sudden arc onto the dark wood of the counter. Elijah pulled away, startled, his mouth searching blindly until he found the nipple again with a soft, milky sigh.
Silas straightened up. She felt the blunt, hot pressure of his cock against her entrance, slick with her own wetness. He didn't hesitate. He drove into her with a single, deep thrust that stretched her filled her, pushing against the lingering tenderness deep inside. She cried out, a sound of pain and profound relief. He was so big, and she was so open, so used.
He set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming against her ass, each thrust jolting her body against the hard edge of the counter. His grip on her hips was possessive, brutal. He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth near her ear.
"This cunt," he grunted, his voice a low, guttural rasp. "Always wet for me. Even when it's still bleeding from my last son. You can't help it, can you, Sweetheart?"
She couldn't form words. She could only take it, her body rocking with his force. The pleasure was a white-hot wire, burning away the fatigue, the pain, everything but the feeling of him splitting her open. She felt another climax building, coiling tight in her belly, triggered by the ruthless friction of his cock and the filthy truth of his words.
"Gonna fill you up," he promised, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. "Put another boy in you right now. Isaac needs a brother close." He shuddered, and she felt the hot, pulsing jet of his release deep inside her, a claiming flood that warmed her from the core. His orgasm triggered her own, a violent, clenching wave that made her scream into the quiet kitchen, her milk letting down again in a helpless, warm gush.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, his weight heavy on her back, his breath hot on her neck. Finally, he pulled out, and she whimpered at the sudden emptiness, feeling his seed already beginning to trickle down her thigh. Elijah had finished nursing and was drowsing against her breast, milk-drunk and peaceful.
Silas turned her around. His eyes were dark, hooded. He looked from her face, flushed and tear-streaked, to the sleeping baby in her arms, to the small, rounded swell of her stomach. He leaned in and licked a stray drop of milk from her nipple, his tongue rough and warm.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, the word tasting of her, of salt, of possession. He took the sleeping Elijah from her arms, cradling him with an unnerving gentleness, and disappeared back into the shadows of the house, leaving her leaning against the counter, exposed and trembling, the scent of sex and milk hanging thick in the candlelit air.
He left her there, dripping and raw, the cool air raising goosebumps on her sweat-slicked skin. She heard the soft creak of the floorboards as he moved down the hall, Elijah’s quiet breath fading into the darkness. Her own breath hitched, a shaky exhalation that did nothing to calm the frantic beat of her heart. The candle guttered, casting long, leaping shadows that seemed to mock her vulnerability.
She pushed herself upright, her legs trembling, and reached for a dishcloth to wipe the mingled fluids from her thighs. The rough fabric scraped against her sensitive flesh, a stark contrast to the memory of his tongue. Her milk still leaked, a slow, warm trickle that felt like a betrayal of her body’s exhaustion. She was so full, so used, so utterly his.
Then he was back, a sudden, solid presence filling the doorway again. He moved without a sound, his eyes black and intent in the dim light. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. He simply closed the distance between them in two swift strides. His hands, hard and demanding, gripped her waist.
He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, her body folding against his chest. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, locking at the ankles. The movement was fluid, practiced, a dance they had performed countless times in the dark. He supported her weight easily, one arm banded across her lower back, the other hand fisting in her hair.
“Silas,” she breathed, her voice a broken whisper against his neck.
He ignored her, adjusting his grip. The blunt head of his cock, already slick and hard, found her entrance again. He drove upward, burying himself inside her with a single, brutal thrust that stole the air from her lungs. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was half pain, half pure relief. He was so deep, stretching her tender, well-used cunt, hitting a place that made her vision blur.
He began to move, a rough, piston-like rhythm that jarred her entire body. Each upward slam of his hips smashed her clit against the hard ridge of his pelvis, sending jolts of white-hot pleasure through her core. Her nails dug into the corded muscles of his shoulders, seeking an anchor in the storm. The kitchen around her became a blur of shadows and the frantic beat of their bodies colliding.
“Daddy,” she moaned, the word slipping out unbidden, a desperate, filthier truth.
It ignited something in him. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and his pace intensified, becoming punishing, relentless. He fucked her harder, deeper, his grip on her hair tightening, forcing her head back. “Say it again,” he commanded, his voice a rough scrape against her ear.
“Daddy,” she sobbed, the title a prayer and a surrender. “Oh, God, Daddy, please.”
Each time she moaned the word, he seemed to grow larger inside her, his thrusts becoming more savage. He was claiming her, obliterating every other thought, every other need. The world narrowed to this: the slap of skin, his guttural grunts, the wet, sucking sounds of their joining, and her broken, repeating litany. “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.”
Her climax ripped through her without warning, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around his driving cock. She screamed, her body seizing, milk spraying from her nipples to soak the front of his shirt. Her inner muscles fluttered and spasmed, milking him, pulling him deeper into the abyss. He roared, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that filled her, a final, possessive claim. He held her there, impaled and shuddering, until the last tremors subsided. Then, slowly, he let her legs slide down, her body boneless and spent, supported only by his arms and the counter at her back.
Then, slowly, he let her legs slide down, her body boneless and spent, supported only by his arms and the counter at her back. Her breath came in ragged, shallow pulls, each one a testament to the brutality and beauty of what he’d just taken from her, what she’d willingly given. The kitchen air was thick with the scent of sex and spilled milk, a primal perfume that clung to their skin.
He didn’t speak. Instead, his hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs rough against her tear-streaked cheeks. He leaned in, and his mouth found hers not with the savage hunger of before, but with a slow, devastating reverence. This kiss was a soft, searching exploration, a silent apology and a promise woven into the gentle slide of his tongue against hers. It tasted of salt, of her, of a tenderness so profound it made her chest ache.
When he broke the kiss, his dark eyes held hers, and in their depths, she saw the ghost of the man he kept hidden from the world. “My Sweetheart,” he murmured, the words a low vibration against her lips. Then his arms slid beneath her, one hooking under her knees, the other cradling her back, and he lifted her from the counter as if she were made of glass. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her body yielding completely to his strength.
He carried her from the kitchen, through the shadowed hall where the ghosts of their previous encounters seemed to watch from the darkness. The farmhouse was silent around them, save for the creak of the floorboards under his weight and the soft, wet sound of his seed still leaking from her onto his arm. He shouldered open the bathroom door, the hinges protesting softly, and stepped into the small, tiled room.
Steam began to fog the mirror as he turned on the shower, adjusting the water until it hit his wrist with a hot, steady pulse. He stepped under the spray, still holding her, the water sluicing over them both, washing away the sweat and milk and the evidence of his possession from her skin. He set her on her feet, her legs trembling, and she braced her hands against the cool, wet tiles while he reached for the soap.
His hands, those instruments of death and devotion, moved over her body with a methodical care that felt like a benediction. He washed every curve, every stretch mark from the babies he’d put inside her, lathering the soap between her thighs with a gentleness that made her whimper. He turned her, his fingers working through her tangled curls, rinsing her clean as the water ran in rivulets down her swollen belly and over the dark thatch between her legs. Then she took the soap from him, her own hands shaky, and returned the favor, scrubbing the blood and grime from his tattoos until his skin gleamed under the fluorescent light.
He turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a rough, clean towel from the stack. He dried her with the same intense focus, patting her skin until it was pink and warm, rubbing the towel over her damp curls with an intimacy that was both practical and deeply possessive. He dried himself quickly, efficiently, before tossing the towel aside.
Scooping her back into his arms, he carried her to their bedroom, the one with the sagging mattress that had borne witness to so much of their life. He laid her down on the cool, worn sheets, her body sinking into the familiar dip his weight had created. The moonlight filtered through the window, painting silver stripes across her naked skin.
He didn’t join her immediately. Instead, he knelt between her legs, his hands spreading her thighs apart with a firm, familiar pressure. His breath ghosted over her sensitive flesh, still tingling from his earlier assault. “I need to taste you again,” he said, his voice a low growl that was both a statement and a question.
His mouth descended, and his tongue, flat and hot, licked a slow, deliberate path from her entrance to her clit. He didn’t spear into her like before; this was different. This was worship. He circled her clit with the very tip of his tongue, flicking it with a maddening lightness that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Please, Silas,” she begged, her fingers twisting in the sheets.
“I want you clean for me,” he muttered against her, his breath warm on her wet flesh. “I want to taste nothing but you.” He buried his face in her, his tongue plunging deep into her cunt, fucking her with slow, languid strokes that coiled a deep, aching pleasure in her belly. He sucked her clit into his mouth, nibbling and laving until she was sobbing, her back arching, her hands fisting in his dreads.
“Come for me, Sweetheart,” he commanded, his voice muffled by her flesh. The pressure built, a tight, screaming knot that shattered with a violence that left her gasping. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, convulsing wave that milked his tongue and left her trembling and empty.
Before the last tremor had faded, he was moving over her, his body a solid, welcome weight. He positioned himself at her entrance, his cock, hard and thick, nudging against her slick, swollen folds. He didn’t thrust. He pressed forward slowly, inexorably, filling her with a single, deep, stretching motion that made her cry out softly. “I’m making love to my woman,” he whispered into her ear, his hips beginning a slow, rolling rhythm that was utterly different from the frantic pounding in the kitchen.
This was a deep, connected joining, each thrust a deliberate caress that sought not just pleasure but union. He moved inside her with a reverence that bordered on pain, his eyes locked on hers, his breath mingling with her soft moans. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting each slow, grinding push with a roll of her own hips. The world narrowed to this bed, to the slide of his skin against hers, to the feeling of him moving within her, a part of her, claiming her in the most fundamental way.
His pace gradually intensified, the slow rolls becoming deeper, more urgent, but never losing that underlying tenderness. She could feel his control fraying, his breaths becoming ragged grunts against her neck. “Izzy,” he groaned, a rare use of her name that shattered her completely. Her second climax built slowly, a warm, spreading tide that crested and broke, pulling a soft, broken sob from her throat as she clenched around him.
He followed her over the edge, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to go on forever, filling her, sealing them together. He collapsed atop her, his weight a familiar comfort, and for a long time, they lay there, tangled together, listening to the sound of their hearts slowing. He eventually rolled to his side, pulling her with him, tucking her back against his chest, his arm a heavy, protective band across her waist.
Exhaustion, deep and sated, washed over her like a warm wave. Her limbs felt heavy, her mind blissfully empty. The last thing she felt was the steady, solid beat of his heart against her back, a rhythm that lulled her down into a deep, dreamless sleep.