Chapter 21: The Morning After
The first thing she became aware of was the weight of the velvet duvet, like a dark cloud settled over her naked body. The second was the warmth of the silver pendant, nestled in the hollow of her throat as if it had been forged there. The third was his gaze.
She turned her head on the silk pillowcase. He was propped on one elbow beside her, the sheets pooled at his waist. The city’s dawn light, weak and gold, washed over the sharp planes of his chest and shoulders, casting his watching eyes in shadow. He hadn’t been sleeping. He’d been studying her, the way a collector studies a prized acquisition under glass.
“Good morning, my love.”
His voice was a rumble, sleep-rough and intimate. It didn’t ask a question. It stated a fact. She was his love. Therefore, it was good.
A smile broke across her face, effortless and radiant. She stretched, a sinuous, cat-like motion that made her breasts press against the cool sheets, her toes pointing. The movement brought her thigh into contact with his leg, and she felt him—hard, already, and insistently hot against her skin.
Her body reacted before her mind could form a thought. A soft, needy sound escaped her lips as she shifted, grinding herself against the firm muscle of his hip. The emptiness from the night before was still there, a hollow echo that only he could fill. It pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
“Already?” he murmured, a hint of dark amusement in his tone. His hand came to rest on her hip, stilling her. “So greedy. My insatiable girl.”
“You’re here,” she whispered, as if that explained everything. Her hand slid down his stomach, her fingers tracing the line of coarse hair until they wrapped around his length. He was thick, velvety steel in her grip. She squeezed, experimentally, thrilled by the sharp intake of breath it drew from him. “I need you inside, Daddy. I woke up empty.”
He moved so fast it stole her breath. In one fluid motion, he rolled, pinning her beneath him. His weight was a delicious anchor. He hooked his hands under her knees, pushing them up and out, spreading her wide open for him. The cool morning air kissed her damp folds, and she shuddered.
He didn’t enter her. Not yet. He held himself there, the blunt head of his cock nudging against her entrance, smearing her own wetness.
“Tell me what you are.”
She blinked up at him, her hazel eyes clear of everything but devotion and want. “Yours.”
“Specifics, Elise.” His voice was a lash, gentle but unyielding.
“I’m… I’m your good girl. Your sweet girl.”
He pushed forward, just an inch, a torturous, stretching invasion that made her cry out. “And?”
“And your… your cocksleeve,” she gasped, the filthy word a sacred prayer on her tongue. “Your perfect little cocksleeve. Please. Use me. Fill me up.”
“Since you ask so nicely.”
He sank into her with a slow, relentless pressure that stripped the air from her lungs. Her inner muscles fluttered, trying to accommodate him, surrendering utterly. He seated himself to the hilt, his pelvis flush against hers, and paused, letting her feel the full, stretching completeness of it.
“God,” she whimpered, her nails digging into his forearms. “Daddy.”
He began to move. Not the frantic, punishing pace of the night before, but something deeper, more possessive. Long, dragging strokes that brushed a spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. Each withdrawal was a tragedy. Each thrust was a homecoming.
He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath hot. “This is where you live now. On my cock. Taking me so deep you can taste it. This sweet, tight pussy was made for me. Admit it.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her hips lifting to meet his. “Made for you. Only for you.”
He fucked her like that for what felt like hours, the world narrowing to the slick, rhythmic slap of skin, the creak of the bedframe, the low, animal sounds he made in his throat. Her first orgasm built not as a surprise, but as an inevitable tide. He felt it, the tightening of her around him, the broken pattern of her breath.
“Not yet,” he commanded, and stilled, buried deep. He slid a hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers finding her clit. He circled it, once, twice, with brutal precision. “Now.”
It was not a request. It was a trigger.
Her climax detonated, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her body bowed off the bed. It was a white-hot wire of pleasure, electrocuting her from the inside out. She convulsed around him, her cunt milking his shaft in frantic pulses.
As the last waves were still shuddering through her, he pulled out. The loss was a physical pain. Before she could protest, his hands were on her, flipping her onto her stomach with effortless strength. He dragged her hips up, pressing her face into the pillow. The new angle was deeper, more animal.
He slammed back into her wet, clutching heat with a single powerful thrust.
She screamed into the velvet, the sensitivity from her first orgasm magnifying every sensation into something almost unbearable. He set a ruthless rhythm, his balls slapping against her with every drive. One hand gripped her hip, the other tangled in her honey-brown hair, pulling her head back to arch her spine.
“See yourself,” he growled, his voice guttural.
Her tear-blurred eyes focused on the wall of windows ahead. Their reflection was a ghostly imprint over the cityscape—his lean, powerful form pistonning into her yielding one, her breasts swaying, her face a mask of ecstatic ruin. She was watching herself being fucked, and the sight fed the hunger, made it worse.
“You see that? That’s what you are. A beautiful, used fucktoy. Mine.”
He was losing his rhythm, his control fraying. His thrusts became jagged, erratic. With a final, brutal drive, he buried himself to the root and came. A raw, groaning shout ripped from him as he pulsed inside her, flooding her with heat. She felt every jet, and the sensation pushed her, violently, into a second climax. It was sharper than the first, a seizure of pleasure that left her limp and trembling.
He collapsed over her, his weight a crushing benediction. They stayed like that, joined, breathing in ragged unison. Slowly, he pulled out. The slow seep of his release from her body was a fact she noted with a distant, profound satisfaction.
He rolled her onto her back again. Her limbs were liquid. He looked down at her, his green eyes blazing with possession in the growing light. He trailed two fingers through the mess between her thighs, gathering their mingled fluids, and brought them to her lips.
“Taste it. Taste what we made.”
She opened her mouth without hesitation, her tongue swirling around his fingers, swallowing the salty, bitter proof of her submission. Her eyes never left his.
“You’re never leaving this bed,” he stated, his voice low and final.
A slow, utterly content smile spread across her swollen lips. “I don’t want to.”
Later, he carried her to the en-suite bathroom, a cavern of marble and steam. He settled her in the sunken tub, the hot water stinging the tender marks on her hips. He washed her himself, his hands moving over her breasts, between her legs, with a clinical tenderness that was its own kind of violation. She was pliant, her head resting against the tile, watching him.
“What do you think about?” he asked, soaping the curve of her shoulder.
“You,” she answered instantly. Then, frowning slightly, as if trying to retrieve a memory from a sunken ship. “I used to think about… brushstrokes. Pigment. The fall of light in a painting.” She looked up at him, her doe-eyes clear. “It all seems very dull now.”
He smiled then, a real smile that touched his eyes. It was the smile of a man who has just completed a masterpiece. He rinsed her clean, lifted her from the water, and wrapped her in a towel as soft as a cloud.
Back in the bedroom, he dressed in one of his tailored suits, the transformation from predatory lover to impeccable professional seamless. She knelt on the rumpled bed, the towel around her, watching him fix his cufflinks.
“You have your seminar today,” he said, not looking at her.
A faint ripple of confusion crossed her face. The outside world. The art history building. It was a faded postcard from another life. “Do I?”
“Yes. You’ll go. You’ll sit and listen. You’ll even participate.” He turned, his gaze pinning her. “And the entire time, you’ll feel me. You’ll feel this.” He pointed, index finger aiming at the apex of her towel-draped thighs. “You’ll be wet for me in that lecture hall. And you will not touch yourself. You will come home to me. And you will tell me all about it. Understood?”
The confusion melted, replaced by a glow of purpose. A secret mission. Her for him against the world. “Understood, Daddy.”
He leaned over, kissed her forehead. “Good girl.”
She stayed kneeling, listening to the sound of his footsteps recede, the distant click of the front door. The apartment was silent, holding its breath. She looked out at the city, awake and bustling below. It seemed insignificant. A painted backdrop.
Her hand drifted to her throat, to the pendant. Her other hand slipped under the towel, her fingers sliding effortlessly through her slick folds. She was, as promised, already wet. She smiled, removed her hand, and brought her glistening fingertips to her lips.
She had a seminar to get ready for.