Page 20 of Little Death
My breath catches, and he uses it to his advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue invading and tasting. Muscles that had been tense with anticipation or lingering apprehension loosen, liquefying underneath him. I reach for him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, my hips hitching up to cradle his abdomen, allowing me to take him deeper.
He murmurs phrases that aren’t English into my mouth, and I wish I’d taken my mother up on learningGaelige Uladh. The thought pops like a bubble as his body presses full length against mine. Hardness against softness. I meet his words with senseless whines, unable to control the responses he pulls out of me. Mindless.
Thoughtless.
The way I’ve been…never.
I’ve never felt like this before.
Never had every anxiety, every thought simply vanish from my brain.
I float on the feeling, letting it turn me languorous and blur the edges of the world around me until Aiden is the only thing left. He’s saying something against my cheekbone, the words too low and guttural for me to comprehend. My body tightens around him, clasping him with my cunt, my legs, my arms.
“Why did you have to be so feckin’ perfect?” he wonders aloud, more to himself than to me. “Taking me so good. Can you handle a little more?”
I murmur something unintelligible. My mask tilts precariously on my face, slightly obscuring my vision. It’s a miracle that it’s still there, literally hanging on by a thread.
“Of course you can. You’ll take it all, won’t you? Take everything and give it back as good as you get. Feckin’ perfect,” he repeats. “Stubborn. Beautiful. Even when you give me all those pretty tears. That’s it. Take all of it. Let me in, sweetheart. Show me you’re mine.”
I don’t let him in so much as he forces himself to fit. Stretches me until I want to cry with how full I am. Then he’s licking the tears from my cheeks, and I realize I’m crying.
“Please” is the only word I remember how to say.
The next orgasm—the third? Fourth? I’ve lost count—rips into me as his teeth latch onto my nipple. That twinge of pain acts like gasoline to a flame, leading to an explosive orgasm that rolls into another almost immediately from the rhythmic clamp of my cunt around him inside me. I black out for a moment, the world turning dark, my vision wavering, my ears buzzing until all I can hear are my ragged breaths.
La petite mortindeed. I’ve never truly understood the French phrase for an orgasm—a little death—more clearly than I do as my vision clears and my hearing returns.
Aiden could find his own release quickly after, but naturally, he doesn’t. When I devolve into tears and beg that he has to stop, he only slows his thrusts. Kisses fresh tears from my skin, then takes my mouth until I’m sighing against his lips. He tells me how beautiful I am, how good I feel, and soothes me when I tell him I can’t take any more.
I die those little deaths a few more times, or maybe it’s one long, rolling orgasm. I stop caring and can only cling to his shoulders, clinging on to my last remaining link to the living.
When he finally comes, his arms are wrapped around me again, holding me tight to his tense body. I have enough awareness to clasp him against me, one hand low on his back, one in the soft bristle of closely trimmed hair at the base of his skull. I hold him like I never want to let him revel in the way he shudders against me, body slick with sweat and fused to mine.
I keep him there for a long time, long enough that the sweat cools and our heartbeats slow to their normal rates. Eventually, he pushes up to relieve me of his weight, and I have to bite back my protest.
“Alright?” Aiden asks, his eyes flicking over me to assess.
All I can do is nod, and he dips his head to plant a kiss on my jaw. I wince as he pulls out because there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t ache. I lie in the middle of the bed, unable to move and wondering if I can die there when he returns from disposing of the condom.
He scoops me up into his arms like I don’t weigh a thing and carries me to the shower, which is already running. After he tests the water and deems it safe, he tugs me under the spray in front of him, and I groan at the delicious heat as it rains down over me. There’s a tugging at the back of my head and before I know it, the mask protecting my identity falls to the floor with an anticlimactic splash.
“You don’t have to tell me who you are. But I want to see your face.”
I’m frozen as he turns me around, waiting for him to recognize me, but the only emotion in his face is satisfaction.
Relief takes the starch out of my knees and I barely manage to hold myself upright, and Aiden chuckles when he notices. “All the fight worn out of you?” he asks as he lathers soap scented with vanilla all over my quaking body.
Has he really not recognized me? If he had, wouldn’t he have said something.
“Momentarily,” I admit, my voice a croak. “If you were trying to ensure I couldn’t run away, you’ve succeeded. For now.”
Maybe he doesn’t watch the news. Or doesn’t care about American politics.
“There’s nowhere you could run where I wouldn’t find you.”
My wicked retort dies in my throat as his masterful hand moves between my legs. He lets the water rinse me before he uses a wet washcloth to clean the sensitive flesh there. I grip a handrail to stabilize as my weary thigh muscles threaten to go on strike. As though to emphasize his point, his devilish fingers bring me to another brutal climax in short order, not stopping until my legs threaten to collapse beneath me.
“Try to run now,” he says with a smirk.
