Page 101 of King Of Order

My cock throbbed and seeped, and one time I reached for it to choke it back from the brink of cumming.

Simply by tasting, scenting her.

Fotto! She was heaven.

She began to fuck my tongue as her ecstasy drew closer.

I stretched a hand for her tits and rolled one pointed tip, pinching it with a quick twist.

She blew, pelvis grinding on my mouth, arms splayed as she writhed through her orgasm.

Even before she was done, I powered over her heaving limbs and slid inside her.

‘Bella,’ I groaned, loving how wet, tight, and hot she was.

How ready for me, how she rippled as she encircled me.

How she purred into my nape, nipped my ear, stroked my ass, her fingers reaching deep between my thighs, gliding over my swollen balls.

Our rocket got off the ground in spectacular style as I pumped with intense, long deep sweeps until I, too, came in a storm of utter bliss, thrusting into her core as my cock blew.

It took a few more pumps before I calmed, the heat flaring with every kiss on our lips.

Later, we lay in each other’s arms, my face buried in her nape, marveling at her.

‘You’re incredible. You’re transforming me, woman, into an addict for your love.’

Silence fell as she traced the ink on my chest to my throat.

‘I was once an addict,’ she whispered.

My stomach lurched. ‘Dimmi,’ I invited, guessing what she was about to share.

She knifed up and turned her arm to show me old scars dotted on her skin.

‘You’ve probably seen these already,’ she whispered, her eyes flicking with nervousness to mine.

I stuck a tongue in my cheek, wondering how much to reveal.

‘I have,’ I admitted.

She sighed, her fingers running along my thigh. ‘When I was a junkie, when I was using, I didn’t care for anything—no outlet, no escape—just the next hit. It never took the grief away.

Rehab was necessary to rid me of the toxins, but it didn’t reach my heart; I was still left raw, with all my internal wounds seeping, with no clue how to heal.’

‘Baby,’ I growled, reaching for her face.

She turned her face into my palm.

‘Art saved me, Rio,’ she said, her utterance quiet, almost as if she was confessing a shadowed secret.

I stilled. Something in her voice changed. Darkened. ‘Saved you how?’

‘When I was at my lowest and hopeless, this was the only thing that kept me going. Creating. Painting. It gave me a way to process everything I’d been through. My craft allowed me to deal with all of the darkness and despair. It still does.’

I didn’t know what to say. Listening to her admit her truth—hearing the depth of what she’d been through—shook something loose inside me.

I’d first-hand witnessed her addiction and was still conflicted about it all, how I thought about the old Chiara.

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