Page 120 of Sire
My desire.
My power.
“Show her,” Sire growls. “Show her how we’ll make her ours.”
Nash rises beside me, his hard cock hovering over my panting lips. I lick at his early drops, but I keep our secret promise. I don’t put Nash in my mouth. I take him just enough to show Sire how much I want this.
Tonguing Nash’s swollen tip, I feel Axel slide, two… then…
“Oh my God,” I cry out, feeling Axel pump three fingers into my ass. I’m so overwhelmed by Sire’s size stretching my pussy, too; I don’t know where the pleasure comes from, but it’s everywhere.
It’s here.
It’s now.
“Yes, Angel.”I hear Sire.I love Sire.There’s one being made for our soul, and he’s mine. Always mine and forever.
“Yes, Angel,” he calls me. “Come for us. Show us you’re ready to be ours.”
His hips lift. Brutally hammering his cock into my pussy, his hands hold my hips prisoner, and I’m forced to take this pleasure.
Indulging my mouth. Teasing my tongue. Stretching my ass. Pinching my nipple. Filling my pussy. Thrilling my clit. I come so hard, I convulse, crying. I sob, laughing, and shaking.
It lasts forever and never long enough.
In a sudden grab, Sire pulls me to him, wrapping his strong arms around me and holding me so tight while he groans, coming inside me, “Christ, Wren.”
Through his grunts, his release, he vows, “Damn, Angel, I love you. I swear, I’m gonna fucking die for you.”
Why?
Why do I suddenly believe it’s true?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SIRE
Four monthslater
A seaof pastel Easter hats stretches from the first pew to the last. It fills me with peace. Pride. Joy.
Strumming my guitar, I sing, casting my smile at Wren in the front pew.
My angel always dresses elegantly for church. Her simple white sundress matches her wide-brimmed hat. But her smile? Her perfect face is twisted, trying not to laugh, and when I follow her stare, I see why.
Little Annabelle May sits with the other kids on the altar steps. Proudly, they sing with me, “Jesus Loves Me,” but Annabelle loves picking her nose more. Her little finger is digging for gold in front of the whole congregation.
I glance at her parents in the fourth pew. They look mortified, so I stand, strumming and singing into my headset as I work my way to Annabelle. When she sees me, she proudly hugs my leg, wiping her golden treasure on my dark suit pants.
I laugh. So do my parishioners while I finish the song.
Sitting with the kids for a final round of “Here Comes Peter Cotton Tail,” I encourage them to hop for their laughing parents, and they do.
It’s a simple joy, and all I want with Wren one day.
Damn, she’s beautiful, smiling at the kids, too.
Love almost chokes my breath away.
