Page 23 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Edgar

The door clicks shut behind us, and I lock it without taking my eyes off her. The air shifts. No more pretending this wasn’t inevitable. The silk-thread tension I’ve kept wound tight all evening thrums at the base of my spine.

She’s still wearing that dress that clung to her like it had intentions. I wanted to drag her into the bathroom at the restaurant, bend her over the sink and make her sob, but I didn’t. Because I wanted this. Now. When I could take my time. When I could make it mean something.

“I want to show you something,” I say, voice lower than it’s been all night.

She tilts her head at me, curious, just the faintest edge of nerves sparking in her eyes. Not fear. Anticipation.

I brush her hair back behind her ear and ask, “You trust me, don’t you?”

She nods, chest rising like her lungs are preparing for something far more serious than breath.

I move to the sideboard and retrieve the silk tie I’d stashed there earlier, navy blue, smooth as water. I keep my gaze on her as I loop it in my hands. “I want to take something away,” I tell her, stepping close, “so the rest of you can feel more.”

She reacts first with nerves, then intent. A shiver, then a lean, a beautiful contradiction I’ll never stop wanting to witness.

I press a kiss to her forehead, a quiet thank you, then gently blindfold her.

God, she’s gorgeous. Stripped of vision, she stands taller, instinct sharpening. I can see her chest rise and fall faster. Every part of her already more sensitive.

“You look perfect like this,” I say against her ear. “Do you know that? You look like surrender.”

A soft whimper answers me, and I want to devour it.

I lead her to the bedroom with a steady hand at her lower back, coaxing her down to sit at the edge of the bed. My voice stays low, warm with promise. “Hands at your sides. No thinking. Just feel.”

She nods and that simple gesture, small, obedient, strips me to the bone with all the grace of a caress. I feel it in my cock before my chest.

I start at her ankles, brushing my thumbs over bone and skin, slow enough to be cruel. Up her calves, behind her knees, places most men forget to worship.

By the time I reach her thighs, she’s breathing harder.

I pause. Let it stretch, let the wanting crawl higher. Then I part her, firm and unhurried, like I’m unfolding silk with secrets inside.

I kiss her knee. Then higher. Then higher.

When I finally press my mouth to her through the fabric of her underwear, she gasps, head tipping back, hands fisting the sheets. I hum against her, letting her feel the want in me. The gratitude.

She tastes like the end of every good thing.

I hook my fingers in her panties, and slide them down, then off. I kiss her inner thigh, just above the bend. A silent vow.

Her scent hits me first. Clean and dark and dizzying. Her sounds come next, those soft, stifled little gasps when my tongue finds rhythm, when I suck just enough to tease. I groan into her, not because I’m losing control, because I choose to let her feel how deeply I want this.

And then she says it.

“Edgar… oh, fuck, that feels so good.”

I answer with more tongue, more pressure, one thick finger sliding inside her slowly, and she cries out.

“Just like that,” I growl. “God, you’re so responsive, fuck, I love how you open for me.”

She comes with a shattered sound, thighs trembling against my shoulders. I don’t stop. Not until she begs. Not until I’m sure she’s wrung dry.

And even then… I’m still hungry.

Her pulse hasn’t even steadied yet. I can see it beating in her throat, feel it in her thighs under my hands. I kiss the inside of her knee one last time, soft, sealing the moment, then rise up between her legs.

She’s still blindfolded. Still floating.

“I want to see your eyes now,” I say, brushing her hair back as I gently tug at the silk knot. “I want you to see me when I finally get inside you.”

Her lashes flutter as the blindfold falls. Pupils wide. Still hazy with bliss.

“You doing okay?” I ask softly, brushing my thumb under her eye.

She nods, lips parted, dazed. “I feel…” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Ruined. In the best way.”

I will never recover from her.

I kiss her, slow, drugging, and start to undress her. Sliding down the zipper, easing her dress from her shoulders, kissing every new inch of skin, memorizing it with my mouth.

She helps me, arching for me when I reach behind her to unhook her bra.

And fuck, when she’s naked in front of me, flushed and undone, I forget how to breathe.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” I say, voice rough. “You don’t even know, do you? What you do to me?”

I make her lie back, and strip down myself, fast now, impatient. Because I’ve touched every inch of her, tasted every cry, and I need to feel her. Need to sink into the heat of her body and forget every moment I didn’t have this.

When I settle between her thighs, I keep my weight on my forearms, hovering, noses brushing.

“I’ll go slow,” I say. “I want you to feel every inch. Every second.”

She nods, barely, but her eyes say please.

When I finally push inside her, I nearly lose it. She’s tight, hot, wet from everything I did to her, everything I said. Her hands grip my arms, her back arches, and her mouth opens in a silent gasp.

I choke on a groan. “You feel, Christ, dove, you feel like heaven.”

I don’t slam into her. Not yet. I roll my hips, long and slow, letting her stretch around me, letting her feel how much I’m holding back. Because I could pound her through the mattress. I want to. But this moment? This is mine. Ours.

And when she moans something soft and helpless, “Don’t stop, oh God, Edgar, don’t stop” I lean down and kiss her like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.

“Never,” I promise. “You’re mine now. You understand me?”

Her answer lives in the catch of her breath, the way her fingers curl tighter against my skin.

I give her more. Not rough. Not yet. Just deep. Meaningful. I want every thrust to say what I can’t. And when she starts to tremble again, when her nails dig into my shoulders and her moans get high and desperate, I praise her through it. Filthy, sweet things. A constant string of murmured worship.

“That’s it, let me feel you, good girl, so perfect for me, take it, take all of me.”

When she breaks again, I toe the edge, controlled, holding back.

Her eyes are still hazy, lips kiss-swollen, skin flushed where I’ve marked her with lips and teeth. I could sink into her now, release, but she’s looking at me like she wants more.

More than soft. More than tender. More than safe.

She wants the edge. And I’ll give her the blade.

“I have something,” I say, slipping off the bed. Her eyes track me, curious, until I pull open the drawer at the bedside and draw out the restraints.

Her breath stutters, a visible ripple through her frame, but then she relaxes as trust outweighs fear.

I hold the restraint loosely in my hands and return to her slowly, watching her face. “If you don’t want this,” I say, voice low, calm, “say so. One word, and I drop it.”

She swallows hard. “I want it.”

My cock twitches at the certainty in her voice.

“Lie back,” I say gently. “Arms above your head.”

She obeys. God, she obeys.

I take my time with the ties around each wrist, secured to the headboard. Not tight. Not painful. But enough to make her feel it. To keep her still, open, helpless to the slow ruin I plan to inflict.

“Still doing okay?” I ask, brushing my fingers down her ribs.

She shivers under my touch. “Yeah. I want this.”

“Good.” I kiss the inside of her wrist. “I’ll take care of you.”

I slide my gloves on, black leather, supple and snug, then drag them over her thighs, slow.

She gasps. Sensitive. Perfect.

“Do you know,” I say, mouth against her navel, “how insane you make me? How hard it is not to tear you apart the second I get you alone?” I bite her hip, hard enough to bruise.

“Do it,” she whispers.

My hand flies to her throat. I don’t squeeze. Not yet. Just let her feel the weight of me.

Her lips part. Her eyes flutter.

“Sweet little dove,” I say. “You’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you?”

She whimpers. I reward her with two fingers inside her.

She arches, wrists straining in the ties, and it’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” I tell her, voice dark. “But not just for me. For you. So you remember exactly who you belong to.”

She trembles, just faintly, but the way she presses in makes it feel like devotion.

I grab her hips, and line myself up.

One thrust, slow and cruel, and she whimpers. Her head falls back. The ties creak.

“That’s it,” I rasp. “Take it. You can take all of me.”

I fuck her in deep, hard strokes, gloved hand on her throat, the other gripping her hip so tight I’ll leave fingerprints. Her body rocks with every thrust, arms straining, tits bouncing, and all I can do is praise her between groans.

“Fucking perfect, so tight, so fucking good for me.”

She comes again, spasming around me, and I don’t stop. I choke her just enough to feel her twitch, her mouth drops open in a silent cry and when she starts to come again, I use every ounce of control not to spill inside her. I let out a broken groan and a bite her neck.

She’s boneless beneath me. Breathless. Glowing.

I should untie her. I should whisper soft things and gather her close and tell her how good she was. But I’m not done with her. Not when she said my name like that. Not when I haven’t carved it deep enough to echo.

Because when she shuddered through that last orgasm, she moaned my name, and I felt the weight of her wrapped around my cock and decided I need more. Need all of her. Again. Rougher. Deeper.

I pull out, slow, and she whines at the loss.

“Too much?” I ask, voice jagged.

She shakes her head. “No. Keep going. Please.”

I kiss her hard, messy, hungry, a thank-you and a threat, and then I grab her thighs and fold her in half. Legs over my shoulders.

If she wants more, then she’ll get more.