Page 69 of Lustling

Then, finally—he gives me what I want. His fingers slide through my slick folds, teasing, exploring. My breath shudders out of me as he circles my clit, slow and deliberate.

"You're so wet," he murmurs, voice thick. "You really missed me, didn’t you?"

I moan, pressing against his hand. "Yes—fuck, yes?—"

"Too bad."

I whimper as he pulls away again, leaving me aching, desperate.

Then, he shifts, pushing me further onto the bed and climbing over me, caging me in with his body. His cock presses against my entrance, thick and heavy, but he still doesn’t push inside. Instead, he leans down, dragging his tongue along the side of my throat, teeth grazing my pulse.

"I could take you right now," he breathes against my skin. "Bury myself inside you and fuck you until you can’t think straight."

My nails find his shoulders. “Then do it.”

He laughs, a dark sound that shakes the air between us. “You don’t get to order me around, Lustling.”

I snarl and lift my hips, grinding into him, trying to force his hand. Another stinging slap lands on my ass and the heat of it floods the place that wants him.

He smirks. “I think I like you like this.”

“Like what?” I snap.

“Needy,” he answers simply. The word is a verdict and a promise.

I growl, ready to argue.

Then he takes me. Not with crude urgency but with a single, brutal thrust that leaves me breathless—the movement of him into me a perfect, hard claim. The air knocks the breath out of me. “Fuck—” rips from my chest.

His hands close on my hips, anchoring me to the moment. “That’s it, baby. Take it,” he growls.

I wrap my legs around him, nails scoring his back as he begins to move. His rhythm builds—strong, deliberate, relentless—and each thrust takes me nearer some wonderful, terrible edge.

But it’s slow. Too slow.

“Faster,” I plead. “Harder.”

He answers by driving his cock deep into me and then holding me there. “Not yet,” he rasps, breath ragged. “Not until you remember who you belong to.”

I try to argue and the sound I make dissolves into a sob. “Deimos?—”

“Say it,” he orders, his hand tightening around my throat possessively.

My voice is a broken thing when I answer. “I belong to you.”

His eyes flare and then he moves like a man released. The next wave is fierce and terrible, a storm in which I shatter and then mend again. His movements are deep and brutal.

My moans shred into screams, his name ripped from my throat again and again—prayer, curse, plea braided into one. I don’t care. I am his utterly, and tonight he will carve that fact into every part of me.

THIRTY-NINE

Darkness folds around me, thick and warm. I am on my knees. Before her. Lillien.

She lounges above me as a ruined goddess, effortless and cruel, fingers threaded through my hair. I can’t stop myself. My mouth moves of its own accord against her, tasting, worshiping; my hands grip her thighs as if they are the last tether I have to anything that keeps me whole. She moans, tilts her head back, and the curl of sound tightens something in my chest until shame curls beneath the pleasure.

“Good boy,” she purrs, tugging my hair just enough to make my cock throb. The pleasure is instant and dirty, and the shame sits on top of it like ash. I should pull back. I should be better than this. I should be what I was told to be. But the hand at my cheek is warm and soft, and when I look up, her violet eyes are full of something wicked and understanding at once.

“Angel,” she whispers, and the single word is a thread I can’t help but follow.