Page 10 of Scent of Desire
“If I come, I’ll ravage you,” he threatened in a tone that entailed scorching debauchery and wicked paradise.
“And that’s not what you want?” I gulped, the tropical heat of the smoke drying my throat.
“I want more than that, little witch.” He removed the knot from his towel and let it fall to the side, freeing his hard manhood in front of me. “Spread your legs.”
My hands clutched the ledge harder behind me. I parted my legs wildly, a tenor echoing between my thighs.
“Touch yourself.” His hand slid on his hardness, stroking himself at the sight of me. His movements were fluid and slow, yet all of his muscles were tense. The veins of his arms stood out in a purple color like an up-to-no-good potion spreading. “Touch yourself as if you’d die if you don’t. Submit to your pleasure. I want to hear you cry out from those precious lips of yours.”
My cheeks turned crimson, and then, the shyness slipped away under his empowering words. I lowered my hand between my crotch and arched my back, my breath cutting short in slow, ragged intakes. I reached the part of me where only he had touched me and caressed myself shamelessly, my eyes locked on his masculine hand pleasuring himself.
The milk lapped across my skin under the pace of my rolling hips. I was aroused by the way he ate me with his stare. How he envied the way my fingers touched my clit. How it tortured him to see my naked breasts bouncing without being touched. The way he groaned, thrusting his manhood inside his palms.
“Roll your nipple between your forefingers, and as you do, imagine I’m sucking and flipping it.” His voice echoed like multiple shadows across the room.
I closed my eyelids, caressing my breast. My head fell backward, my throat offered for his invisible kisses. The heat transported me to a humid jungle where I was the slave under the torture of a king. Desire was mortal. A need.
I rolled my nipple with my fingers and moaned. I heard the stroking of his cock. It was fast. His grunts. It was like he was chasing after me, and if only he would catch me, he would do to me all manner of unholy sins.
“Now tug it and give it a slap because you’ve been bad teasing me like that.”
I tugged on my nipple, my other hand taking a handful of my breast, imagining it was his touch worshipping me. I punished myself and slapped my pink nipple. My back arched in response, feeling the delicious ecstasy of pain melting with pleasure. I tugged on my other, my lips parting for a loud moan to slip free.
“Beautiful, flower goddess,” he grunted, a rasp in his voice. “My tongue is now on your clit, my head buried between your legs.”
“Yes,” I dropped in desperation, under the spell of his voice. Instantly, I pressed my thumb on my clit and rolled circles around it. My body contracted, butterflies blooming in my stomach.
“Now, ride me, Lily.”
Still with my eyes closed, I pressed harder, stretching my legs as far as I could on either side of the bath. I lifted my pelvis to feel more friction, feeling the bolt of pleasure building up.
“That’s it. You’re riding me. Faster.”
His voice penetrated each of my cells. I quickened my pace, my fingers going numb. The milk lapped above my mouth. I could drown, but I didn’t care. My body clenched under the firebolts of lust, and I snapped my eyes open.
“Don’t!” he roared.
I snapped them shut again. “I want to see you.”
“If you misbehave, you won’t come. Follow the rules, flower goddess.” I heard footsteps. Was he coming my way?
I nodded, not stopping my frantic pace, the heat taking my breath away.
“I flick one of your nipples as I’m fisting your hair. I devour you. Ride me, Lily.”
Yes.My hips rolled, my legs shaking, the illusion of me riding his face continuing. My orgasm arrived like an unpredictable tornado that would shatter everything on its way. It burst into me, my clit pulsing like a mad heart.
“Oh my god!” I cried out, the last touch on my clit sending me to heaven.
“Not god,” he whispered. “The Devil.”
I took a short intake of breath and opened my eyes slowly. The view ahead of me was blurry, but I could see that Radcliff wasn’t on the throne anymore. A breeze caressed my neck, and I spun around.
Radcliff appeared from behind me. He was sitting on the edge of the bath, displaying his iron strength with glowing muscles and wrapping up the room with his imposing aura. His scar tissues from old wounds displayed small breaks in the shape of cuts and slices with the heat, making his flesh shine. In one of his hands, he held a fruit of the brightest red.
Pomegranate.
With a knife, he cut it in half, then in a quarter so I could see the juicy dark burgundy seeds inside. He tilted a part of the fruit toward me like an offering.
