2

Her breath came in broken sobs—ragged, desperate, beautiful. The aftershocks rolled through her, long and deep, like the echoes of thunder after a storm. Her body was splayed wide across the bed, trembling, soaked in sweat and slickness and something darker.

But he wasn’t done.

The figure in the mirror moved—though her body hadn’t. His hand released her own, sliding lower, commanding without a word. Her muscles obeyed like marionette strings pulled tight. Her thighs lifted. Her knees bent. And her hand moved again.

Slower now. Deeper.

“Good girl,” he purred from the reflection, voice so thick with praise it coated her like oil. “I can taste you through your fingers.”

She moaned—low, wrecked. Her fingers moved to gather more of the wetness between her folds, spreading it, slicking her inner thighs as if preparing her.

“Two now,” he ordered.

She obeyed, breath hitching as her fingers stretched her, slipped inside. Her cunt clenched around them, greedy, aching for more. Her back arched, hips lifting off the bed in need, need, need—

And then she felt him.

Not just his voice. Not just his presence.

Him.

Sliding over her skin like silk made of shadows and smoke, tasting every inch without a tongue, whispering along her collarbone, her ribs, the slope of her belly. His weight pressed into her thighs, spreading her wider. His breath—impossibly hot—bloomed over her cunt, curling like a tongue around her clit.

Her fingers paused.

“No,” he growled. “Don’t stop. Let me taste both of us.”

She whimpered and obeyed, plunging her fingers deeper as the sensation of his mouth joined hers—wet heat and flickering fire, lapping, teasing, devouring. His tongue wasn’t just a tongue. It was everywhere. Inside her. Around her. In her blood.

“You’re mine,” he said again. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, tears slipping from the corners of her eyes, fingers trembling inside her as he sucked at her clit, harder, faster, dragging her toward another orgasm that felt twice as sharp and three times as deep.

She cried out, body contorting, walls fluttering around her own fingers as the pleasure built to a scream. Her thighs clamped around his head—except there was no head. Just pressure. Heat. Need.

“Say it again,” he growled, voice vibrating in her chest like thunder.

“I’m yours!” she cried, sobbing now, mind unraveling, body undone. “Please, please, I’m yours!”

He roared into her—no sound, but a wave of force that drove her over the edge again. Her orgasm slammed through her with violent finality, muscles locking, release gushing around her fingers. She felt him drink it in. Drink her in.

In the mirror, he knelt between her legs now—still a shadow, still impossibly beautiful. His cock—huge, dark, leaking—stood proudly in his hand as he stroked it, slow and possessive, watching her fall apart.

“Now,” he said. “You’ll watch me fuck what’s mine.”

And the bed dipped. The shadows solidified. His hands—finally, finally real—grabbed her thighs and dragged her down to the edge of the mattress. Her fingers slipped from her soaked cunt just in time to feel the hot press of his tip at her entrance.

“Beg me,” he whispered, low and cruel and loving.

She looked up at him, tears on her cheeks, lips parted.

“Please…” she whispered. “Please fuck me.”

And then he thrust.

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