Valka
The sensation is indescribable. Rough. Intrusive. Unbelievably erotic. The cool wetness, the scraping texture against hypersensitive flesh, the sheer wrongness of it mixed with the absolute rightness of his touch. A ragged cry tears from my throat. My back arches violently off the desk, my hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth wood.
He does it again. A slow, deep drag. In and out, mimicking a carnal rhythm with the brush on a canvas. The bristles drips red as he fucks with the handle, sending jolts of pure, white-hot pleasure-pain radiating through . Paint mixes with my own arousal. I can feel the wetness pooling beneath , hear the slick sound as he works the brush.
Blue, crimson, green. My juices swirl them together into a dark, erotic stain spreading on the ancient mahogany beneath my hips. The scent is overwhelming--paint, sex, primal need.
I scream his na, my nails breaking on the wood. My legs tremble, trying to clamp shut, to bring against the source of the torturous pleasure, but his hand on my hip holds immobile, open, exposed. I am his plaything. I like being his plaything. I like being at his rcy. I never want to leave this room ever again.
He leans down, finally giving into the sight of my breasts. His breath is hot. His mouth is hot. He sucks the colour off them. He thrusts the brush deeper, harder, but sohow still careful not to bruise .
I want bruises. I want to rember everyti I walk. I want to dream about it. I want more. I tell him that, but he doesn’t give what I want, instead pressing his thumb against my clit.
The world fractures into sensation. The in and out plunge, the heat, the very sll of him, the unstoppable tide rising within , the obscene wet sound of the brush moving in the ss I’ve made on his desk. My vision whites out.
A guttural sob rips from my throat, blinding ecstasy tearing through my core in ripples, spasms and contractions. He fucks with my cum, feeding the creamy white back to into with an thrusts. I writhe, my painted hips grinding with reckless abandon against the unforgiving wood of the desk.
The hand on my hipbone tightens, his eyes darkening as they take in where the handle disappears in and out of , and violet-gold eyes burn with irrational jealousy and feral possession, even if it he who fucks with it.
"Who owns this cunt?" he asks.
"You," I hiss, limbs trembling.
"Who am I to you?" he asks again, now glaring at the damned brush, soaked with all of . He twists it and it grinds against a spot inside that sends my lips parting around an ’O’.
I try to shape the words, failing after a few tries, but they fly out of when he presses even harder. "My idiot husband."
A soft chuckle skitters over my skin and I co to the sound of it, vision exploding white, body convulsing sharply as I clamp down on the instrunt.
Before the last tremor subsides, before I can even gasp for air, he pulls the brush free with a wet, sucking sound that makes whimper.
In one swift, brutal motion, he flips onto my stomach. My breasts scrape the cold wood, the mixed paints saring beneath . The hot, heavy press of him against my fucked-open entrance makes my eyes roll back in my head.
"Ask for it," he demands, pushing my spine lower, arching to perfection. "Beg for it."
"Please," I rasp.
"Not nearly humble enough," he muses, back arching over mine as he presses my cheek into the desk. "But it’ll do."
He drives into , and it doesn’t matter how many tis he’s filled up, it will always hurt. He stretches obscenely, stealing both my breath and whatever little part of that has begun thinking again.
He lifts one of my legs from the surface, forcing off balance. I gasp, clutching for sothing that isn’t there, but he catches easily, strong hands locking beneath my thighs, holding open, suspended. My toes touch behind his torso, locking. The shift drags him deeper still. My spine arches, the air punches out of my lungs. The angle is impossible, brutal, perfect. I didn’t know one could bend that way.
The desk groans.
Twice this week, he’s replaced it.
He pulls out, agonizingly slowly, and I feel him through the bond, his walls coming down. And I see myself through his eyes. I see what I look like as he buries himself into . There is paint sared all over my ass. My thighs. The very shape of his handprints. I--He wishes he could leave those prints in my soul. I think he already has.
He thinks I’m beautiful. He wants to love him. I tell him I do. And he laughs at . Tells it is his cock inside speaking. I tell him I didn’t know genitals could speak. He laughs at and fucks harder.
Out. In. Three thrusts. Four. Out. Three thrusts. Out. Six. Out. Two. He never lets predict it. And because I can’t, it edges to a point of anger.
But then, he pushes in and I am no longer angry. He tells to reach between my legs and touch myself. He tells how he wants to do it. Two fingers apart, clitoris in the centre. I co on the first stroke. It feels like a canon exploding.
A high, broken wail tears from my throat as my body locks, shattering around him, my cunt pulsing violently, clenching his cock like a vise, vision dissolving into streaks of crimson and gold. He growls low, a sound of pure satisfaction and his pace quickens through the contractions, jarring my bones against the desk.
It cracks, but holds.
He starts to set down, but my rump arches for more. He laughs at , calls greedy. But I want his seed in . It isn’t that he doesn’t give it to all the ti. It’s that it feels incomplete if I do not feel that pulsing heat inside.
He always cares more for my pleasure than his. If he thinks I’m hurt, he stops. He’s careful, even when he’s rough. He knows the bruises he leaves, knows I’ll need hours to heal. He wants to give that. But I don’t want ti. I don’t want gentleness.
I want the unraveling. I want the mont he breaks.
My walls clench around him, tight enough that I see stars, and he stutters my na, just once, before that dark growl rumbles in his chest. His control shatters. His hand slips from my thigh to my hip, holding still as his release floods into , hot, thick, endless. It’s not just the heat or the possession that makes it feel rewarding; it’s the tremor that runs through him. The shudder. The surrender.
The knowing that even a god can lose himself inside .
Ti flows. I do not keep tabs on it. It might have been hours later, when he’s curled up on the couch by the tall windows, bundled in blankets that sll faintly of him, when a knock echoes on the door.
Drowsy, I don’t hear him move until the door opens. But I do hear the guard. Nath, I think. He says we’ve gotten the first ssage back from the docks.
A part of knows it is important. But a larger part of stirs in distress. Because I feel it. This cocoon of warmth we’ve built in the last couple of weeks is about to shatter.
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