Chapter 13: Aftercare and Another Round
Her throat worked, a series of deliberate, swallowing motions that hollowed her cheeks and fluttered the tendons in her neck. Ethan watched, breath caught, as the last of him disappeared inside her. A final, soft sigh escaped her lips, and she leaned back on her heels, her tongue tracing the curve of her upper lip to catch a stray, glistening pearl. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, held his with a look of profound, unsettling completion.
The silence in the closet was no longer still. It was alive, thrumming with spent energy and the humid fragrance of sex and sweat and broken perfume.
Slowly, Olivia rose. The movement was fluid, powerful, a panther uncoiling. The torn grey thong still hung uselessly at her thigh, a casualty of war. The severe corset, stained and strained, seemed less like armor now and more like a trophy, a testament to what it had endured. She placed her palms flat against his chest, her fingers splaying over his pectorals. Her touch was both possessive and propelling.
She pushed.
Ethan, still swimming in the aftershock of his release, took a stumbling step backward. Then another. The backs of his thighs met the cool, unyielding surface of a floor-to-ceiling mirror panel. The impact sent a slight shudder through the glass, distorting their reflections for a heartbeat.
She came with him, not letting an inch of space form between their bodies. She pressed her entire length against him—the hard boning of the corset against his sternum, the impossible softness of her breasts spilling over the top of it, the slick heat of her belly against his. She pinned him to the mirror, a living, breathing cage of satin and flesh.
In the reflection, Ethan saw himself: hair mussed, chest heaving, his expression one of dazed surrender. And he saw her, behind him yet reflected before him, a vision of debauched elegance. His own release shone on her chin, a pearlescent streak against her flawless skin. Her lips were swollen, rosy and wet. Her eyes, in the mirror, locked on his mirrored ones.
“You taste like sleep,” she whispered, her voice a husk of sound against his collarbone. “Deep, secret sleep.”
Her hand slid down between their bodies. Her fingers, clever and sure, found him again. He was softening, spent, but her touch was an incantation. She stroked him, not with frantic urgency, but with a slow, possessive reverence, her thumb smearing the remnants of their union over his sensitive skin. He gasped, his head thudding back against the mirror. It was too much, an overload of sensation so soon after the cataclysm, but her will was a tangible force.
“Look,” she breathed, her lips at his ear.
He forced his eyes open, meeting hers in the glass.
Her other hand came up, fingers dragging through the sticky evidence on her chin. She gathered it, then brought her glistening fingertips to her own throat. She painted a wet, deliberate line down the column of her neck, over her pulse point, into the shadowed valley between her breasts pushed high by the corset. The symbol was primal, a claim written in the most intimate of inks.
“I want to wear you,” she said, her stroking hand never ceasing its slow, milking rhythm. He was responding, thickening again under her impossible ministrations. “I have the Varvatos gala on Thursday. The dress is backless, black crepe. It will take an hour to lace me into it. I want to feel you here,” she pressed her slick fingers hard against the base of her throat, “drying on my skin, under the fabric. A secret. My secret.”
“Mother,” he groaned, the word torn from him. His hips twitched, pushing himself helplessly into her fist.
“I want it in my hair before I wash it. I want the scent of you in my pores when the photographers get close.” Her voice was a low, hypnotic chant. Her hand left his now fully re-awakened length and gripped his hip, her nails biting in. “Give it to me again. Here. Now. I’m not done.”
She turned him, his back scraping against the mirror, until he faced it fully. Then she bent, placing her hands on the floor, her perfect, round ass lifted high, aimed at him. The torn lace framed the pink, well-used furl of her asshole, glistening and slightly pouted from his previous invasion. The corset forced her spine into a deep, erotic arch. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her expression one of pure, unadulterated need.
“Here,” she repeated, her voice trembling just slightly. “I want to feel you inside me when I walk. I want to remember this with every step.”
He needed no further command. His hand found his shaft, guiding the broad, weeping head to that tender entrance. It yielded more easily this time, the muscles memory-lax, but the heat was just as intense, the clasp just as devastatingly tight as he pushed in. A long, low moan vibrated through her, echoed by the mirror she faced.
He set a pace that was the antithesis of their earlier frenzy. This was stately. Ceremonial. Each thrust was a deep, grinding conquest, a slow-motion claiming. He held himself deep for agonizing seconds, rotating his hips, feeling her inner muscles flutter and cling. He watched in the mirror—the powerful flex of his own abdomen, the jiggle of her ass against his thighs, the focused, enraptured expression on her upturned face.
“You’ll remember,” he panted, his voice thick. “You’ll sit in that car, on that stiff seat, and you’ll feel me. You’ll smile at those idiots with their cameras, and you’ll know your insides are painted with your son.”
“Yes,” she hissed, pushing back to meet his next slow drive. “God, yes.”
“They’ll want to know your secret.” He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the mirror beside her head, their reflected faces close, distorted by their panting breath fogging the glass. “They’ll say, ‘Olivia Hayes has never looked more radiant.’ They’ll write about your glow.”
“It’s you,” she whispered, her eyes glued to his in the reflection. “It’s always you. It’s this.”
Their rhythm built not in speed, but in depth, in intensity. The soft, wet sounds of their joining were rhythmic, metronomic. The closet, with its treasures of silk and satin, was reduced to this single, brutal, beautiful function: a chapel for a sacrament of flesh.
He felt the familiar, gathering tsunami. This one felt deeper, fuller, as if his body was mining a new reservoir. “I’m close, mum,” he warned, the childish endearment stark against the obscenity of their act.
“In my mouth,” she gasped, the words sudden and clear. “This time, in my mouth. I want to taste it all. I want to swallow it while I can still feel you in my ass.”
The demand, so specific, so visceral, tipped him over the edge.
With a final, grinding thrust that pressed her face to the mirror, he withdrew. He stepped back, his hands hauling her up from the floor by her corseted waist. She turned as she rose, already sinking before her knees hit the plush carpet, her mouth opening in a desperate, hungry ‘O’.
The first eruption was not a shot, but a cascade. It hit the back of her throat with a thick, hot splash. Her eyes flew wide, then fluttered closed in ecstasy as she swallowed convulsively. But there was too much. It overflowed, spilling from the corners of her lips, tracing glistening paths through the smear already on her chin.
He shuddered, his whole body locking as the release continued, a seemingly endless geyser of pent-up possession. Rope after rope painted her tongue, her teeth, the elegant line of her jaw. It coated her throat, a thick, white collar. It dripped onto the corset’s satin, adding new, opaque stains to the existing ones.
It went on for minutes, a prolonged, physiological surrender. When the final, weak pulses subsided, she was a masterpiece of his making. Her face was a mask of his devotion, her throat filled, her expression one of blissful, overwhelming satiation.
She stayed there, kneeling, breathing heavily through her nose, her tongue moving carefully inside her full mouth. Then, with a slow, deliberate grace that was almost regal, she began to clean herself. Not with her hands, but with her tongue and lips, capturing every drop she could reach, swallowing with audible, satisfied gulps.
Finally, she looked up at him. Her face was still slick, shining in the closet’s warm light. She smiled, a slow, deep, utterly contented smile that reached her eyes.
“Thank you, Ethan,” she said, her voice raspy but clear.
He slumped against the mirror, utterly spent, more drained than he had ever been. He watched her rise, walk unsteadily to the vanity, and examine herself in the glass. She didn’t reach for a towel. She just looked, tracing the new contours of shine on her skin with a wondering finger.
The secret, he knew, was already settling into her. It was in her swallowed depths, on her skin, in the very air around her. She would wear it under her black crepe dress. She would carry it onto the red carpet.
And for the rest of the week, every time she moved, she would feel him.