Page 86 of Damascus & The Wildfire
He grabbed my hips, flipped me onto my stomach, and spread my legs with his knees. The slim silicone toy buzzed mercilessly inside me and sucked at my clit, making my entire body tremble.
“Goddamn, look at you,” Merrick said, spitting into his hand before stroking himself. The slick sound sent a pulse of anticipation straight through me.
“You’re going to take me with that toy in your pussy.”
He lifted my hips slightly before sliding into me in one smooth, brutal thrust, filling me to the hilt and pressing the vibrations harder against my G-spot.
“Fuck,” I sobbed, overwhelmed with the fullness. The toypressed harder into me with every stroke of his cock, and the pressure of his body over mine pressed the suction end harder onto my swollen clit. Every movement sent me spiraling higher, the pressure nearly unbearable.
Merrick leaned down, voice rough against my ear. “You like that, Wildfire? My cock stretching you while that toy ruins you?”
“Yes,” I moaned.
“You’re mine. This pussy is mine.”
His pace was maddening—slow, steady, deliberate. He forced me to feel every inch until my legs shook.
“Say it,” he commanded. “Say whose pussy this is.”
My breath hitched. “Y–yours,” I stuttered.
“Louder.” His thrusts deepened, hitting that same devastating spot with each roll of his hips.
“Yours, Merrick!” I cried, clutching the sheets so tightly my knuckles ached.
“Damn fucking straight,” he growled in a savage tone. “Mine to fuck. Mine to fill. Mine to make scream. You’re fucking mine.”
He rolled his hips harder, and the toy sent vibrations ricocheting through me until I shattered.
A violent, all-consuming orgasm tore through me, my body pulsing around him and the toy as wave after wave wrecked me.
“Good girl,” Merrick whispered, his release chasing mine. He tightened his grip on my hips as his strokes became frantic. He roared my name as his climax hit, pulsing deep inside me.
He collapsed beside me, dragging me back into his arms. I slipped the toy free and turned it off, hypersensitive following my orgasm. Still trembling, I curled against him.
Merrick kissed the top of my head, his voice soft. “You ready for tonight?”
I sighed, my fingers tracing idle patterns on the tattoos covering his chest. “Not really.”
He squeezed me gently. “You don’t need to be OK. You don’t need to be ready. I’ve got you.”
I nodded, but my stomach twisted at the thought of seeing Alec’s family in Boston for the ribbon-cutting. The idea of facing them for the first time since his funeral made my chest ache.
Hours later, the Boston air hit me. The crisp sixty-five-degree weather felt unfamiliar following my time in the humid Texas heat. I clutched my bag as we stepped off the plane, memories of my former life rushing back.
As if sensing my anxiety, Merrick’s hand found the small of my back, the gentle pressure steadying me as we walked through the busy terminal.
Outside, he tugged my arm. A sleek town car idled by the curb with a man in a suit and hat holding a sign with my name. I stared, irritation flickering through me. “They sent a car?”
Merrick chuckled, squeezing my hand. “Guess they wanted to make sure you got there. You’re a bit of a flight risk.”
I rolled my eyes but let him guide me into the car. As we pulled away from the airport, the city skyline rising in the distance, I leaned into Merrick to draw strength from his presence. His warmth, his quiet confidence, made the tightness in my chest ease just a little.
The dedication ceremony was held in a sunlit atrium at the university, surrounded by glass and greenery. The sound of laughter and soft conversation filled the space, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart.
The ribbon cutting was brief but poignant. Alec’s mother spoke about his passion for helping children, his kindness, and his dreams for the future. I stood in the front row, Merrick’s hand in mine, as tears burned hot paths down my cheeks.
At the reception afterward, I finally faced Alec’s mother. Her eyes widened as she took in Merrick beside me—his broad shoulders, the tattoos peeking from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, the quiet intensity in his gaze. But without his cut, he looked less intimidating.He stood tall, his posture respectful, his smile polite—the most approachable I’d ever seen him.
