Chapter 9: The Fingering
Emma’s fingers shook as they found the zipper at the back of her skirt. The metallic hiss sounded absurdly loud in the thick silence. The fabric, once crisp and professional, pooled around her ankles, a puddle of beige on the scuffed hardwood. She stepped out of it, the movement mechanical. Now only her sensible lace bra and matching panties remained, ivory against her pale, freckled skin. The dried streaks of his semen gleamed at the corners of her mouth, a filthy badge.
“The rest,” Marcus said. His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Her hands went behind her back, fumbling with the clasp. The bra fell away. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushed them down her legs, stepping out of them with a final, surrendering shudder. She was completely naked, facing him. The air in the room felt cooler on her exposed skin, raising goosebumps. She fought the urge to cover herself, her arms rigid at her sides.
He was still standing, fully dressed, just watching. His cock, spent from her throat, had softened but its size was still evident, a heavy, dark promise against his thigh. He let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“True redhead, huh?” he said, his eyes roaming over the coppery thatch of curls between her legs. “Figured. The other one I had, she screamed like a banshee when I drilled her. Real firecracker. You got that in you, Mrs. Pillsbury? Or you just gonna whimper?”
Emma said nothing. Her throat was too tight, her mind a whirl of static and shame and that persistent, low thrum of heat.
“Lie down.”
She obeyed, lowering herself onto the untidy bed. The sheets smelled like him, like adolescent musk and cheap detergent. She stared at the water-stained ceiling, listening to the rustle of his clothes as he undressed. Then the mattress dipped heavily under his weight. He climbed on, kneeling between her legs, his naked body a sculpture of shadow and hard muscle in the lamplight.
He didn’t ask. His hands, big and warm, grasped the inside of her knees and pushed them apart, widening her stance with an effortless authority. She was exposed, utterly, the glistening pink folds of her pussy open to the dim light and his unwavering gaze. A fresh trickle of her own arousal seeped out, betraying her.
“Look at that,” he murmured. “Married pussy, all slick and waiting. Telling a different story than your face is.”
Then he lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike. It was flat and warm, a slow, deliberate lick from the bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit. Emma jerked as if scalded, a sharp gasp tearing from her. Will had tried, once, years ago, a hesitant, apologetic nuzzle she had shied away from, claiming it was too intimate, too messy. This was not hesitant. This was a claiming.
“Stop,” she choked out, her hands flying to his short hair, not to push him away, but to clutch at something.
Marcus lifted his head, his lips slick with her wetness. “Stop?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You’re about to find out what pleasure actually is. Since your husband clearly doesn’t know how to give it.”
He dove back in.
This was not lovemaking. It was an interrogation with his tongue. He licked broad, punishing strokes that made her hips twitch. He circled her clitoris with the pointed tip, tight, maddening circles that had her back arching off the bed. Then he’d spear his tongue inside her, shallow, rapid thrusts that mirrored what was to come, fucking her with his mouth. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the room, obscene and undeniable.
Emma’s moans grew louder, unbidden. They were high, ragged things, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath and little broken cries, especially when he sucked her clit between his lips and fluttered his tongue against it.
“Oh god… oh, that… I can’t…” she babbled, the words tumbling out between gasps. The pleasure was a tidal wave, erasing the clean, orderly lines of her life. “It’s too much… it’s different… it’s…”
“It’s real,” he grunted against her flesh, his breath hot.
The orgasm seized her without warning. It wasn’t the gentle, fleeting ripple she was accustomed to. It was a convulsion, a white-hot detonation that started in her core and radiated outward, turning her limbs to water and then to rigid steel. Her whole body stiffened, a silent scream locked in her throat. Her legs trembled violently, feet scrambling against the sheets. Waves of sensation pulsed through her, leaving her shuddering and breathless.
Before the last tremor had even subsided, before her mind could form a coherent thought, he was on her again. His tongue, relentless, found her oversensitive flesh. He licked through the aftershocks, and the pleasure, instead of fading, reignited, coiling tight and urgent once more.
“No… wait… I just…” she rambled, her words slurred. “It’s too sensitive… Marcus, please…”
He ignored her, his technique now brutal in its efficiency. He knew exactly what he was doing. The second peak built faster, harder. It was less a surprise this time and more an inevitability. When it broke, she did scream—a short, sharp sound that was pure, unadulterated release. Her hips bucked against his face, her hands fisting in the sheets, her vision spotting at the edges.
As she lay there, utterly spent, breath sobbing in her lungs, Marcus finally raised himself up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and satisfied. He knelt over her, his renewed erection jutting out, thick and fully hard, the head gleaming. He gripped himself, stroking slowly, aligning the broad, blunt tip with her soaked, quivering entrance. It pressed against her, a blunt, impossible pressure.
He looked down at her wrecked form, her flushed skin, her dazed eyes.
“Good,” he stated, his voice rough. “Now that your tight little married pussy is properly warmed up… it’s time to take care of mine.”