Page 71 of Sigma
I press my hand over top of his, push it downward. “Touch me,” I whisper. “Show me.”
I’m damned.
Hell will welcome me to its ranks, when all this is over, perhaps. But in this moment, my need, the furious inferno of my desire, is all there is.
Slowly, giving me every chance to change my mind, he slips his hand under my leggings and underwear. His touch glides over the trimmed V of my pubic hair, index finger pressing against the inside of my left thigh, ring finger against my right, and his long middle finger delving against the soft damp seam of my sex.
I groan, aching. I’m soaked, down there, shaking all over, pulse a wild hammering drum, every sense attuned to Apollo, to his touch, his breathing, his scent in my nostrils and the scent of my sex as well. He curls his fingers, and his middle finger slicks through me.
I gasp, pushing my head back against his shoulder, spine arching. His hand cradles my left breast, cups it, his other between my thighs and teasing me with a finger slicing through my folds again and again. I want him to show me. But he’s teasing.
I growl, arch my back and flex my hips to push my sex against his hand. “Apollo…please, just touch me.”
Am I this begging thing? But I need it, need it, and if it means I have to beg, then I’ll beg.
His hand slides up my chest to cup my throat, tilting and twisting my head until he can kiss me, a sudden and searing assault of his mouth on mine, and when I groan at the kiss, he drives a finger into my soaked sex, penetrating me and curling in. Dragging out, his long middle finger smears against my aching, swollen clitoris—I jerk at the touch, a cry leaving me.
“Ahhh, so sensitive,” he whispers. “You’ll come quickly, won’t you?”
I can only whimper. Fire blazes inside me, burning me alive from the inside out. Only his touch can quench it.
His finger slides in again, until his knuckles nudge against my lips. Withdrawing, he grazes my clit once more—this time, though, when he drives his touch into me, it’s two fingers. Stretching me. The heat inside billows, expands. Becomes sharp. Those two fingers graze my clit, and I flex impulsively against the quick touch, which, despite being light and swift, sends a Coriolis wind of arousal howling through my entire being.
My hands go to his—I need more. I grip his wrist, guide his hand from my throat and jaw to my breast, begging silently for more of his touch there. My other hand on his at my thighs, pressing, pushing, pulling.
“More,” I whisper. “Please.”
“Don’t worry, Corinna,” he whispers. “I won’t deny you. I could no more deny you this climax than I could choose to quit breathing.” His lips move at my ear. “I want your moans, Corinna. I need to hear you come. I need to feel you come apart for me. I’m going to make you come, now. I want you ride my fingers. Take it all from me, and don’t hold back. Scream as loud as you want, Corinna—no one can hear you here.”
I’m writhing on top of him, desperate and wild. While he was speaking, his fingers were slicking in and out of my channel, and his words almost drown out the wet squelch of his touch moving inside me, curling and spearing. It feels good, but it’s not what I need.
Then, without warning, he presses his fingertips to my clit and flicks side to side, a light quick touch. I gasp, a shrill breath of shocked pleasure. And now, finally, he doesn’t stop. The side-to-side flicking becomes a slow circling, and at each circle my hips lift and lower in time with the movement of his fingers, and pressure mounts within me, heat and desperation building and building.
If this is what it’s supposed to feel like, then I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.
It’s a mountain of arousal rising inside me, a hurricane of erotic bliss smashing through me. Each touch of his fingers to my clit makes me whimper, each circle of his touch makes me shake and shudder.
Clothing is still in the way. I need to be naked.
I push at the waistband of my leggings, wiggle and growl in annoyance when they refuse to cooperate.
“You want them off?” Apollo whispers.
“Yes,” I hiss.
“Allow me to assist you, in that case.” His fingers withdraw from my sex, and I whimper at the loss, but he drags my leggings and underwear down and pushes them past my buttocks, and then I’m kicking them off, clumsily and desperately using my toe to hook them over my ankles and feet and kicking them away, and then I’m naked on top of Apollo and I can open myself to his touch, and I know I’m crazed, so wild that I don’t recognize myself. Out of control. Desperate.
His hands scour my naked body, scraping from breast to sex, clutching at my hips, sliding over my sex and caressing my breasts and pawing my belly and prying my thighs wider apart. Two fingers touch my clit, then, and two more delve inside me, and now I’m so overcome by sensations that I can barely breathe, because he’s also demanding my kiss, his lips touching my ear and then my jaw and then my cheek and I turn my face to his and I try to kiss him, but his touch pushes a whimper out of me.
My hips writhe.
I surge against his fingers, his talented fingers. His tongue tangles with mine. As I writhe, I feel him moan, as if my pleasure is almost too much for him, as my ecstasy is his own. And I feel his erection beneath me, ignored and enormous.
God, the desires within me are so foreign, so alien—unfathomable in their unexpected intensity. It’s like they’ve been building up inside me all my life, pent up and boiling over without no outlet, and now the touch and the heat and the dark intensity and the primal sexuality of Apollo have opened the vent and let the powers within me loose. But, because they’ve been so pent for so long, the release is explosive and uncontrollable.
I feel out of control.
I have no power over myself. I am utterly at the mercy of my body’s needs—and my body needs what Apollo is giving it.