Page 111 of The Girl Who Should Be Dead

All of her attention is there, on the sensation of his finger, and each breath is its own little exquisite torture.

This was nothing like sex without a human body. Nothing.

He runs his finger over her clit, and everything in her clenches, her breath, her heart, everything, before he dips inside of her. She’s wet, of course she is, and he smiles at her, slow.

Again, she jerks, as he works his finger into her core, every small twitch and motion more sensitive than the one before, before he crooks his finger inside of her.

The world explodes behind her eyes, stealing the air from her lungs, forcing a small sound from her throat, and he leans her against him, tracing a small circle on her inside wall.

“You’re good,” he mumbles, as she struggles to catch herbreath, and even that small bit of reassurance crumbles away with the slow, languid touch inside of her. “I’ve got you, you’re good.”

Wordless, she nods against him, then reaches over and flattens her hand against his crotch. He hisses against her, and a thrill of triumph runs down her back, that she could make him make that sound.

If all of that was just his hand, then she’s amazed.

“I want you to enjoy this, too,” Ambra starts, and her voice is raspy, like the body forgot what it needed to do to keep that part of her functioning.

“Believe me, I am,” he responds, voice dipping low with another circle of motion inside of her, causing her to clench unconsciously.

Still, he pulls his hand out, and she makes a small noise of protest in response. He tugs the too-short pajama pants off, and he’s hard, magnificently so, and heat just tightens more behind Ambra’s stomach.

There’s a moment, a pause, a breath, as they stare at each other. At her heaving chest and his steady still. At the splotches of red at the tops of his cheekbones, so close to the color of when he gets upset. At the small blond curls around his cock, somehow neater than the hair on his head.

At the waiting, as every bit of her trembles with curiosity at what he’ll do next. At what sensations he will wrought from her, at how the body will react.

At how she will react.

The small lines around his eyes crease into a smile, and that’s the warning she gets, before he’s on top of her, an arm on each side of her, bracing himself over her.

He kisses her neck, small gentle kisses, and she needs more. Needs way more, so much more than the gentleness.So much more than the small kisses, so much more than the hints of action.

“Please,” she breathes, voice high, and she never thought she’d be one to beg for something like this.

“Hmmm,” he says simply, and before she can think, he lines up against her and presses in.

She twitches in his arms with another little gasp, and she’s so wet every little bit of skin is magnified. Every touch, every slide, everything.

Her back arching up to him, he cradles her, catching her right when she thinks she’s going to fall, right when everything threatens to overwhelm her, threatens to crest over her and drown her, taking away all it means to be her.

It’s magnificent, all the sensations and the contact and the pleasure, magnificent and so, so much, and tears crowd her eyes, despite herself.

He freezes, and she breathes out, something halfway between a pant and a moan.

“Are you okay?” he asks, alarmed.

“Yeah,” she manages out, her voice wrecked, and clenches around him, eliciting another low hiss. She scrubs a hand over her face, despite it all, and he twitches inside of her, sending another little cascade of sensation down her back. “Do that again.”

He grins, something vulnerable once again behind the smile, and he languidly thrusts in her again. “I like it when you boss me around like that,” he says, and he’s far too composed, far too coherent, when she’s on the edge of being a mess.

And so Ambra’s on the edge of something, and it sticks in her throat.

She can’t compel him, of course. Can’t make him, not in the way that people think Demons can.

But here he is, fully naked with her, and he’s telling her to be in control. She could tell him anything, make him give her as many orgasms as possible, make him lose control. Even out this complicated wretch of a playing field, until they can both be the same.

Or make him push her fully over the edge.

So she clenches again, and gets another small sound from him. “I want you to fuck me as hard as you can.”

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