Chapter 3: A Morning Hunger
The city awoke in shades of slate and gold beyond the glass, but Tanya woke first. The silence was profound, a deep hum of insulation and elevation. She was on her side, the silk sheet a cool whisper against her bare skin. Divakar slept on his back, one arm thrown above his head, his face softened in repose. The sharp, commanding angles of his jaw and cheekbones were still there, but the ruthless intensity of his waking hours was subdued. She studied him, this man who had dismantled and reassembled her in the span of a night.
Her gaze traveled down. The sheet had pooled at his hips. His morning erection lay against his thigh, full and heavy even in sleep, a flushed, formidable curve of flesh. A visceral pulse of heat clenched low in her belly. The memories didn’t flash; they flooded. The concrete cold, his fingers in her hair, the taste of him, the staggering fullness as he took her against the wall. The wet ache between her legs returned, not a memory but a live, throbbing current.
Her hand moved of its own volition, sliding down the plane of her own stomach, over the soft mound, through the neat thatch of hair. She was already wet. Her fingers slipped through her folds, a soft gasp escaping her as she found her clit, already swollen and sensitive. She circled it slowly, her eyes fixed on his cock. Her breathing shallowed. She imagined the weight of it in her hand, the velvet-steel feel of the skin, the way it would push into her, stretching her, claiming her all over again.
She couldn’t wait.
With careful, silent movements, she slid down the bed, the silk rustling. She knelt between his legs, the morning light gliding over the defined ridges of his abdomen. She leaned forward, her hair cascading around her face, and breathed in his scent—sleep, clean skin, and something uniquely, musky him. Her lips parted. She touched the tip of her tongue to the broad head, tasting the faint, salty pre-cum that had beaded there.
A low, unconscious groan vibrated in his chest. His hips twitched.
Encouraged, she opened her mouth wider, taking him in. She swirled her tongue around the crown, lapping at him, before sinking down slowly, allowing her throat to relax as he’d taught her. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, her hand curling around the base, feeling the thick vein pulse under her palm.
His fingers threaded into her hair, not pulling, just anchoring. She looked up. His eyes were open, dark and heavy-lidded with sleep and instant, predatory awareness. He watched her, his expression unreadable, as she worked his length in and out of her mouth, the wet sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice rough with sleep. His hand flexed in her hair. “Good morning to you, too.”
He let her continue for a minute, his body tensing, his control a palpable force in the room. Then he tightened his grip and pulled her off, not roughly, but with undeniable authority. He drew her up his body, her nipples dragging across his skin, and crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was deep, hungry, tasting of her and him mingled. He flipped her onto her back in one smooth motion, his body covering hers, the hard length of him pressing against her thigh.
“You woke me up for this?” he growled against her mouth, his hand sliding between them. His fingers found her soaked flesh, sliding through her wetness, circling her clit with a torturous precision that made her back arch off the bed. “All this, just from watching me sleep?”
“Yes,” she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders.
“You’re a greedy little thing now, aren’t you?” He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, and she cried out. “So fucking tight. So fucking wet for me. All for me.”
He withdrew his fingers and guided his cock to her entrance. He didn’t push in. He just rubbed the blunt head through her slick folds, over her clit, teasing them both. “Say it.”
“It’s all for you,” she panted, her hips writhing, trying to impale herself on him. “Divakar, please.”
“Please what?”
“Fuck me. I need you to fuck me.”
He smiled, a feral, satisfied thing. Then he drove into her in one long, relentless stroke, filling her so completely the air left her lungs in a shocked whoosh. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting her body adjust to the overwhelming invasion. “There. Is that what you needed? My cock splitting you open first thing in the morning?”
She could only nod, her eyes wide, her inner muscles fluttering around him.
He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that struck something deep inside her with every thrust. The bedframe knocked a soft, steady tattoo against the wall. He braced himself on his arms, his biceps corded, watching where their bodies joined, watching her take him. “Look at that. Look how you take it. Like you were made for it.”
His pace increased, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. The possessive tenderness of the night before was gone, burned away by a raw, daylight hunger. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, his pelvis grinding against her clit with every plunge. The sound of skin slapping skin, of their ragged breaths, filled the sunlit room.
“You’re mine,” he grunted, his control fraying. “This cunt is mine. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she sobbed, the coil of pleasure tightening beyond bearing. “All yours!”
“Come for me. Come on my cock. Now.”
It was an order she couldn’t disobey. The orgasm ripped through her, violent and seismic, her body clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses. A strangled scream tore from her throat.
A strangled scream tore from her throat. Her body convulsed around him, milking his cock in desperate, rhythmic clenches. He didn’t stop.
He fucked her through it, his hips slamming into her with a brutal, unrelenting pace that prolonged the shockwaves of her climax into a near-painful overstimulation. “That’s it,” he grunted, “take it, ride it out.” Just as a second, deeper orgasm began to coil, a terrifying wave of sensation building from her oversensitive core, he pulled out.
The sudden emptiness was a shock. Before she could protest, his hand was around the base of his slick, gleaming cock, and he guided it to her lips. “Open,” he commanded, his voice thick. She did, and he shoved himself into her mouth, the taste of her own arousal sharp and musky on his skin. He fucked her mouth with short, rough strokes, her spit and her juices mixing.
Then he withdrew, dragging his shaft up her chin, over her throat. He leaned between her splayed legs, his hands cupping her breasts, squeezing them together to form a tight, soft channel. He pushed his cock between them, the head nudging her chin as he began to thrust. The view was obscene, mesmerizing—his thick length sliding through the valley of her cleavage, glistening with spit and sweat.
“Suck the tip,” he ordered, his thrusts not faltering. She leaned forward, catching the purple head each time it neared her mouth, swirling her tongue around it before he pulled back to fuck her tits again. They moved in this filthy, alternating rhythm—his cock plunging between her breasts, then pushing past her lips—until both were slick and shining.
He released her breasts, leaving them marked with his grip. He lowered his mouth to one nipple, sucking it deeply, his tongue flicking the hardened peak while his fingers squeezed the other. She cried out, arching into his mouth. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same rough, worshipful attention.
Then he kissed her, a deep, passionate tangle of tongues that tasted of salt and sex. It was in the middle of this kiss that she pushed against his chest, a new, daring confidence flaring. He yielded, letting her roll him onto his back against the rumpled silk. She straddled him, her hand wrapping around his cock, which stood rigid and throbbing.
She spat into her palm, a crude, deliberate act, and smoothed the saliva over his length. Then she guided him to her entrance, sinking down onto him in one slow, controlled descent that made them both gasp. She rolled her hips, finding a rhythm, her head falling back as she rode him.
His hands were everywhere. They squeezed her breasts, pinched her nipples, then one hand slid up to circle her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her eyes flutter. He didn’t choke her hard, just held the claim, his thumb stroking her pulse. Then he pulled her down for a bruising kiss, his other arm wrapping around her back to hug her tight against him.
The kiss broke, a string of spit connecting their lips. He gathered it on his thumb and smeared it over her nipple, watching it gleam. Her torso was a canvas of their frenzy—wet with sweat and spit, marked with the faint, blooming bruises of his love bites from the night before. Her hair stuck to her neck and shoulders.
In the rising morning light, she shone. She rode him with a focused intensity, her inner muscles clenching around him, her breaths coming in sharp, pleasure-soaked pants. She watched his face, saw his control fracture, his jaw go slack. “Come inside me,” she whispered, a command of her own.
With a final, deep grind of her hips, she triggered his release. He came with a raw, guttural shout, his body bowing beneath hers, his fingers digging into her ass as he emptied himself deep into her pulsing core. She collapsed onto his chest, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together, their hearts hammering a frantic, synchronized beat against the city’s waking hum.