Page 72 of Sigma

Touch.

The more he touches me, the more I need it. His touch speeds against my clit while his fingers drive in and out of me with slow, sedate, unhurried consistency, and the dichotomy of slow versus fast, gentle versus roughening is enough to splinter my mind and body and soul. I hear myself keening as his touch speeds, no longer so sweet, no longer so gentle against the throbbing, aching button of my sex—my hips move, flex, push, writhe.

Faster, and faster, his touch circles.

I feel something approaching, some massive peak, some echoing abyss. An edge, sharp and explosive. The mounting pressure and heat behind my navel have spread to my fingers and toes and scalp, every muscle now taut with it, every synapse singing with it, until all of my being is utterly and furiously focused on the rough swipe of Apollo’s flying fingers.

His breathing, felt as a rising and falling of his hard chest behind my back, quickens with mine. His voice in my ears is rough and primal.

“You’re there, aren’t you, beautiful?” His voice is a sensation unto itself, an erotic snarl in my ears that caresses every erogenous zone throughout my whole body, my whole being. “You’re going to come for me, Corinna.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command.

I explode, right then.

It begins with a scream, as a white-hot knife slices through my core, the long-pent pressure snapping free like the cable of a suspension bridge. I writhe, spine bowing upward as my feet press against the arm of the couch. His touch is unrelenting, no longer circling now but swiping side to side as fast as his hand can move. My arching thrust means he lost the angle necessary to keep his fingers inside me, but I no longer need that—all I need is the clitoral stimulation.

Faster and faster, and I’m screaming through gritted teeth as the hurricane of overloaded sensory stimulation batters me, an ecstasy so acute it is nearly painful, an explosion so wrenching my scream of pleasure crumbles into a sob.

Without warning, I’m lifted into the air. My eyes are closed and I’m writhing and shaking, gripped in the feverish wrack of my orgasm, and all I know is that I’m airborne. Briefly. Set down again, and now I feel the cushion of the couch under my ass and the rough cool wicker against my back—I’m sitting up.

I force my eyes open, and I see Apollo descending on me like a dark, vengeful god, his eyes wide and black and fiery, his skin glistening, his mouth set in something between a snarl and a smirk, the grin of a hungry animal spying helpless prey. He drops to his knees in front of me, and I’m trembling still, shaken with aftershocks. I can’t take my eyes off him. His hair is wild and loose, curling around his jaw and shoulders in tangles, begging to be knotted in my fingers. He cradles an ankle in his hands, kisses a delicate touch of his lips to the ankle bone. The side of my calf. I gulp, swallow a breath, and he kisses the inside of my thigh. Sets my knee over his shoulder, foot and calf draping down his back. Lifts my other leg and kisses a mirroring line from ankle to calf to knee to thigh, until this leg too he drapes over his shoulder.

I know what he’s about to do, and I still can’t quite believe it.

I can’t breathe. Can’t look away from his mouth as it kisses my skin, slow wet kisses dotting my flesh from thigh to navel to thigh, dip of my hip to the other. Then to the top of the inverted V of my pubic hair—and now my gasp is a shrill whimper, a breathy cry of shock. The kisses don’t stop—they descend. His eyes remain on mine, daring me to look away. I don’t. I watch in rapture as his lips graze over my sex, as his lips trail along my pussy and his tongue slide against the seam. My mouth falls open, but no words come out—oh god, oh god, oh god…it echoes in my skull but I can’t form words.

I’m still shivering with the tremors of the last orgasm, and now his tongue slithers against my clit and I’m instantly at the peak, tottering on the tip of the mountain. His hands rush up my body, cupping my tits with greedy hunger, fondling them eagerly, desperately, and his mouth kisses my sex, tongue delving into my wetness and my heat, licking at it, slathering nimbly through my clenching channel to twirl with teasing slowness around my aching clit.

“Oh…fuck…” It’s a breathed snarl, barely audible, dropping from my lips.

His thumbs pry open my nether lips and his tongue flattens against me and he shakes his head from side to side, and then his fingers are curling into me and dragging against the higher inner walls where there lurks, unbeknownst to me, a secret. He touches me there with scraping rhythm in a counterpoint to his whipping, hungry tongue.

I shatter.

I can’t even scream.

I can only shake silently, mouth open, eyes wide, brows furrowed, watching his mouth devour me, watching his fingers plunder me, watching him play my body like a violin.

If the last orgasm was a pleasure-like pain…this one is razor-sharp and sun-hot. I must onlyendureit. Wracked and splintered by it into breathless abandon, I finally find oxygen to scream and now with the rush of air to the fire, it blows hotter and wilder, as if my scream was a backdraft. I’m writhing and thrusting against his mouth, my movements wanton and erotic, my breathless screams coming hard and fast and loud as I helplessly desperately grind myself against his lips and talented tongue.

I can’t take anymore.

I shake my head, try to pull away, but he’s not done with me. His mouth continues to push me through the shaking and the shivering until I’m gasping again, until I curl my body inward and plead with him to stop.

“No more,” I gasp. “Stop, please stop.”

He prowls up my body and I feel him hovering over me and his eyes burn into mine. His stubble is wet from my juices, like a wolf with its prey’s blood dripping from snapping jaws. “That,” he whispers, “is how I will make you come—again and again, until you beg me to stop.”

One knee is pressed into the couch beside my hip, the other stretched out the floor. His eyes are wild with lust. My eyes flit to his zipper, still bulging with his own arousal.

My need is not satiated.

Not nearly.

I’ve come, and the pressure within has been vented. But the snarling need of my suddenly insatiable sexuality has just come alive.

Before he can stop me, if he even would, I twist free the button of his slacks and tug down the zipper. Immediately, his erection springs upright, and a pink broad head pokes out of the top of his underwear. I shove his pants down, my movements rough and eager, and then, more gently, hook my fingers into the elastic of his black briefs, pausing for a moment to assess his reaction.