Chapter 9: Claiming Her Completely
Her body was still shuddering, waves of pleasure radiating from her core, when Patrick intensified his assault. He sucked her clit firmly into his mouth, applying relentless, rhythmic pressure with his lips and tongue while his fingers continued to piston in and out of her dripping cunt. The dual sensation, the overstimulation on her sensitive bud paired with the deep, curling thrust of his fingers, was too much. A guttural cry tore from her throat as another, harder orgasm slammed into her. Her hips bucked wildly against his face, her back arching off the bed as she came, her inner muscles clamping down rhythmically around his thrusting fingers.
He gentled his mouth, lapping softly as she trembled through the aftershocks. When her breathing began to even out, just barely, he slid his hands under her ass, his palms cradling the full cheeks. He lifted her hips clear off the mattress, holding her exposed and open before him.
Her dazed eyes met his. His own were dark, pupils blown wide with lust and something akin to reverence. His chin glistened with her wetness.
“You taste fucking amazing,” he declared, his voice rough and thick. “And now I’m going to taste this.” His gaze drifted down to the tight, hidden pucker between her lifted cheeks.
Teresa’s breath hitched. “Patrick, wait—” she started, a flush of surprise and sudden, thrilling vulnerability washing over her.
But her words dissolved into a long, low groan as he lowered his head and his hot, wet tongue swept over her back entrance. It wasn’t a tentative lick. It was a bold, broad stroke, followed by the pointed, insistent tip of his tongue circling the tight ring of muscle. He rimmed her with focused intent, teasing and pressing, before pressing the flat of his tongue firmly against her, fucking her with it.
A strangled sound escaped her. The sensation was shocking, intimate, utterly taboo. Heat pooled in her belly, different but just as intense.
He slid one hand from under her ass, around the curve of her hip, and splayed it across her lower stomach, holding her firmly in place. His other hand kept her hips aloft. Then his thumb, slick from her own juices, found her swollen, oversensitive clit and began to rub slow, deliberate circles.
“Ah! No, too much,” Teresa gasped, her body jolting. She tried to squirm away from the direct contact, the sensation skating on a razor's edge between pleasure and pain. But his hand on her stomach was an immovable anchor, and the broad width of his shoulders between her thighs prevented her from closing her legs. She was trapped, completely open to his mouth and hands.
She was gasping, writhing helplessly against his hold. “Please, stop… no, don’t stop… Patrick, please…” Her pleas were fragmented, contradictory, driven by sheer sensory overload. His tongue worked her ass with relentless dedication while his thumb continued its merciless, exquisite torture on her clit.
The conflicting sensations coiled inside her, a spring wound to breaking. The obscene wetness of his mouth on her most private place, the relentless pressure on her throbbing bud—it built into a terrifying peak. “I can’t… I’m gonna… Patrick!” His name tore from her lips not as a plea but as a raw, shattered declaration as a third, cataclysmic orgasm detonated through her. It was less a wave than a quake, shaking her to her foundations. Her vision whited out. Every muscle locked and then went liquid.
He released his grip immediately. His thumb left her clit, his hand slid from her stomach, and he gently lowered her hips back onto the soft mattress. He sat back on his heels, his own breathing ragged, and just looked at her.
She was a trembling, flushed, and gasping mess. Her skin was sheened with a fine sweat, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. Her hair was a wild dark cloud around her head. Her lips were parted, her eyes closed, long lashes fanned against her cheeks as she fought to draw air into her lungs.
Patrick felt an insane wash of pride, hot and fierce, that he had done this to her. He had shattered the formidable Teresa Lisbon, not with violence or fear, but with pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. She had never looked so beautiful, so utterly real and conquered and his.
He watched her for a long moment, the only sound her gradually slowing breaths and the distant pop of the dying fire. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. They found his, bleary and unfocused, then clarity seeped back in, along with a deep, profound shyness.
“That was…” she began, her voice hoarse.
“Incredible,” he finished for her, his voice softer now. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of her head, and kissed her gently. She could taste herself on his lips, salty and musky, and the intimacy of it made her shiver.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured against her mouth.
“You broke me,” she whispered back, the words carrying no accusation, only awe.
“I’ll put you back together,” he whispered, his voice a low promise against her skin. He kissed her collarbone, the frantic hunger momentarily banked into something softer, more deliberate. He settled his weight beside her on the rumpled sheets, one hand coming up to cradle the side of her face.
He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, feeling the residual tremor in her muscles. His other hand stroked down her arm, over the curve of her hip, a silent catalog of her form. The firelight painted her in amber and shadow, highlighting the damp patch on the sheets beneath her.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his gaze drinking in the sight of her sprawled and spent. “Absolutely fucking ruined.” There was a possessiveness in his tone that warmed her more deeply than any blanket.
He leaned in and kissed her again, slowly, deeply. She could feel the hard length of his erection pressing against her thigh, a persistent, heated demand. She arched into him, a silent answer. His hand slid from her face into her hair, his fingers threading through the dark waves.
Patrick stroked her hair gently, and shifted his body over hers. He positioned his cock at her entrance, the broad, slick head nudging against her soaked folds. Teresa pulled her legs up on either side of him to bring him closer, her heels digging into the small of his back.
He was about to enter her when she slyly whispered “Don’t miss this time.” Her words caught him off guard for a moment. He shifted to study her face, finding her grinning at him, a flash of her old, teasing self shining through the wrecked pleasure.
He kissed her again, a slow, claiming press of lips. “I’ll have you know, last time was intentional,” he told her, smiling against her lips.
Before she could respond he slowly started to push forward. Her eyes closed and her lips parted in a quick, sharp inhale. He was thick, stretching her profoundly, a sweet, burning fullness that made her breath catch. Patrick paused, buried only an inch inside her heat, until she opened her eyes.
She found his gaze locked on hers, intense and questioning. She nodded, a small, sure movement. He pushed in further, a long, slow slide that made her gasp. He didn’t stop until he was fully inside her, their hips flush, her body utterly impaled and filled.
A low groan vibrated in his chest. She felt impossibly tight, hot, and welcoming around him. She slid her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. “I love you, Patrick Jane,” she said, the words clear and unshaken even as her body trembled beneath his, “Take what you need.”
Her permission, her surrender, was the final release. Patrick started to move. He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back into her with a force that jolted the bed frame. A punched-out cry left her lips.
He set a brutal, driving rhythm. Each thrust was a deep, claiming piston of his hips, the slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet room. He fucked her with a raw, single-minded intensity, his focus entirely on the feeling of her cunt gripping him, on the hitched sounds she made with every drive.
“This,” he grunted, pounding into her. “This is what I need.” His words were fragmented, breathless. “To be inside you. To feel you come around my cock.”
She clung to him, her legs tightening around his waist, meeting each thrust as best she could. The overwhelming sensations from before coalesced into a new, deeper ache, a building pressure centered on that relentless friction. He shifted his angle, and on the next deep plunge, his pelvis ground against her clit.
“Right there!” she cried out, her back bowing. “Patrick, don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He hammered into that same spot, over and over, his control fraying. His breathing became ragged, his thrusts more erratic. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a strained growl. “Teresa, I’m gonna fill you up.”
The sheer filth of his words, the visceral promise, sent her over the edge. Her third orgasm of the night tore through her, a deep, internal convulsion that milked his cock rhythmically. Her cry was muffled against his shoulder.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, deep lunge, he buried himself to the hilt and held there. A raw, guttural sound ripped from his throat as he pulsed inside her, jet after hot jet spilling into her depths. The heat of his release seemed to go on forever, a primal sealing of their connection.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a welcome anchor. They lay there, hearts hammering against each other, skin slick with sweat, the air thick with the scent of sex and woodsmoke. Slowly, carefully, he rolled, taking her with him until she lay half on his chest.
He lowered himself to the bed beside her and they both lay there, tangled and breathless. The only sound was their slowing respiration. His hand found hers on his chest, their fingers intertwining. Outside, a car passed on the wet street, its tires hissing, a sound from a world that felt galaxies away.