Chapter 7: The Awakening
The city lights blurred beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a smear of amber and white against the dark. Janet lay on her back, one arm flung across her forehead, her chest rising and falling in deep, shuddering waves. The sheets beneath her were damp, twisted, clinging to her skin in patches. Between her thighs, the lingering pulse of her orgasm still throbbed, a dull, delicious ache that spread up through her belly and into her bones.
She could feel him move beside her, the shift of the mattress barely registering through the haze that had settled over her mind. She heard the click of a drawer, the soft pop of a lid, the sound of liquid being swallowed. She didn't open her eyes. Her body was too heavy, too liquid, too entirely spent. Her thoughts were scattered shards, nothing coherent. Frank's face flickered somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, but it was distant, muted, no more than a photograph she couldn't quite focus on. She pushed it away.
The ache between her legs was a constant, humming reminder of what he had done to her. The slow, torturous rhythm. The way he had held her on the edge until she had sobbed with need. The way he had watched her, his eyes heavy-lidded and calm, as her body had convulsed around his cock. She had never been so thoroughly taken apart.
She was halfway to sleep, drifting in that warm, weightless space between consciousness and oblivion, when she became aware of a pressure. Something warm and heavy resting against her lips. She frowned, her brow furrowing without her eyes opening. It was soft, velvety, insistent. It nudged against her mouth, a deliberate, patient push.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Otis was above her. He had shifted on the bed, his body propped on one arm, his knees bracketing her shoulders. He looked down at her, his face half-shadowed, his calm grey eyes watching her with a quiet, unhurried focus. And there, resting against her parted lips, was his cock.
It was hard again.
Janet's breath caught. She stared up at him, her mind sluggish, her body still thick with spent pleasure. She had felt the sheer size of his cock inside her, had felt it stretch her to a screaming limit. To see it here again, so soon, thick and ruddy and impossibly erect, was a shock that cut through her drowsy haze.
"Get it hard, sweetheart," he said, his voice a low rumble. The words were soft, unhurried, but not a request. "I'm not done with you yet."
Her lips parted, a flicker of protest rising in her throat. She was sore. She was tender. She was certain she couldn't take it again. But his cock pressed more firmly against her mouth, the thick, blunt head pushing past her lips, and the taste of him, salt and musk and her own lingering juices, flooded her senses. The protest died unspoken.
Her tongue curled around the head, a clumsy, automatic response. She was still sluggish, still floating, but her body remembered. It remembered the weight of him, the way her mouth had watered as she'd knelt between his legs, the desperate, filthy need that had driven her to swallow every drop he gave her.
"Use your tongue," he said, his hips shifting, pressing the length of him deeper into her mouth. "Work it along the shaft. Get it nice and slick."
She obeyed, her eyes locked on his. Her tongue traced the thick ridge of the head, then slid along the underside, stroking the tense, hot skin. He was so thick that her lips strained to hold him, her jaw already aching with the familiar stretch. She felt him grow harder, felt the pulse beneath her tongue, and a low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest.
"That's it," he murmured. His hand came up, threading through her hair, his fingers curling around the back of her skull. It wasn't a grip, not yet. Just a possessive, settling presence. "Take it deeper."
She pushed her head forward, taking more of him into her mouth. He filled her, stretched her, the head pressing against the back of her throat. She gagged, a reflexive spasm, her eyes watering. But she didn't pull away. She breathed through her nose, forced herself to relax, and took him deeper still. His fingers tightened in her hair, a subtle pressure, guiding her.
"Good girl," he said, the praise a low, gravelly whisper. "Now work it. Use your throat like you mean it."