His fingers thrust into my hole and, with his other hand, he parts my ass cheeks obscenely. I jerk but he holds me in place.
“Asshole, was it? Your wish, sugar.”
His wet fingers move from my pussy to tease my tight rosebud, right as he angles his head, draws my clit into his mouth, and sucks.
“N— Jayk!” I cry, shocked.
I can’t shift away from him; his other arm is banded like steel around my waist, holding me to him.
His finger slowly pushes past the tight ring and eases in and out, and he flicks his tongue rapidly, firmly over my clit. I feel the strange intrusion in every part of me, unable to escape it. Not sure I want to. My body tries to adjust to the sensations, overworked, overstimulated.
The pressure inside me heightens until my vision blurs and his mouth, his fingers, are all there is, pushing and taking and claiming me. Then, with a blinding wave of wild, overwhelming pleasure, I come apart, sobbing into the mattress, not sure if I’m cursing or thanking him.
I shiver as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through me, making me tingle. Blinking on my way back to sanity—my vision not the best without my glasses—I realize I’m now on my back and Jaykob is between my thighs. There’s a raw violence in his motions as he covers himself in a condom that probably should make me nervous, but somehow doesn’t. Not with pleasure drugging my veins and excitement again restarting my heart.
He grips my hair and pulls me so I’m sitting up. With a savage snarl, he captures my mouth, making me taste my own orgasm, thrusting his tongue between my lips the same way he thrust his cock there minutes before. My eyes grow heavy lidded.
I can’t remember enjoying a kiss so much in my life. Right now, it’s only Jayk, Jayk, Jayk.
On a muffled sob, I rake my hands over his now-damp shoulders and chest. When he releases my mouth, hand still twisted in my hair, I bend forward and bite his pec hard beside the snarl of a vine, then lick over the mark before he yanks me back. I’m not sure if I want to punish him for pushing me so far past my comfort zone or make him feel as wonderful as I just felt.
Violence and desire rock me in a completely unfamiliar way.
He tsks. “That ain’t very fucking polite, Miss Manners.”
He shoves me back down on the bed, not bothering to be gentle.
Stepping forward, he lines himself up, pushing the flared head of his cock against my entrance. But rather than thrusting forward, his hands grasp behind my knees, and he yanks me toward him, impaling me along his length in one quick motion. I gasp, then shift around him with a whimper, my tight body racing to accustom itself to his size. His eyes slide closed for a moment, jaw clenching as he rocks slightly inside me. I clench against the intrusion, and his eyes fly open again, dark and stormy and intent.
“Don’t do that again until I tell you to. Wrap your legs around me. Now.”
My heels bite into his lower back, pressing him more deeply inside me. I shudder. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m over-full. Taken.
Overwhelmed.
He cups my breasts, squeezes them, making me groan, then grasps my hips hard with both hands, as though he can’t wait.
He meets my heavy-lidded gaze. The sneer is gone, leaving only hot, hungry man.
“Hold on.”
Withdrawing sharply, he thrusts back in, deeper than before, angling so he hits every delicious spot inside me. Again and again, faster and faster, he finds a rhythm that brings me back to a breathtakingly sudden peak. He pounds inside me so hard it hurts, but I sob at him not to stop. I can feel every inch of him, feel every slide of flesh, feel him filling me with dark, delicious need.
My hands, bunched in the sheets, move to grasp for skin. My long nails dig into his shoulders, and he leans over me, changing the angle, pounding roughly. I scrape my nails down his back until it arches. He hisses and then laughs coarsely. I kiss him again, wanting his tongue in my mouth as he claims my body. We press together, hot and slick and coated in each other.
He speeds up just as I cry out again into his mouth, shattering into a thousand pieces around his demanding, invading body.
With a low groan and a final, shuddering thrust, he finishes deep inside me.
It’s a long, long time before I can recall how to breathe.
Chapter 13
Eden
SURVIVAL TIP #150
When men start swinging their dicks around—duck!
W hen I wake the next morning, I can’t help but be relieved at finding myself alone. Jaykob had me twice more during the night, but, despite my delicious soreness, the memories of all the things I let him do to me—the things that I did to him— have me burying my face into a pillow.
What came over me last night? I was so nervous, then so mad at him. I wanted to push at him, throw him for a loop, like he did to me. Instead, I turned into some kind of wanton, furious, sex-hungry . . . harlot!
And with Jaykob, of all people. How did I let him bring that out in me? How can I possibly face him again? Just the thought of his harsh, sneering smirk makes me want to bury myself in my room and never come out. I’ve had bullies mock me before. I should have been collected and calm, the bigger person. I should have talked to him rationally.
I should not have come on his dick a half-dozen times and begged him for more.
The way he spoke to me . . . And I not only let him, I urged him on. I shiver at the memory. He more than obliged.
I’m going to have to do some Hail Marys or something. My grandmother would be so disappointed—she had grand hopes for my purity and godliness. She was the one who’d insisted on my name.
But Eden was never pure.
I was made to be corrupted.
Sitting up and putting on my discarded glasses, I look around the room. It’s destroyed. Pillows are flung around the room, clothes litter the floor, and the bed covers are rumpled. It smells like sex and sin. I smell like sex and sin.
How strange.
And why on earth do my lips want to twitch in satisfaction at that?
There’s an unfamiliar ache between my legs—not the pulsing need from last night, but a well-used soreness that, with every motion, sends vivid memories of how I obtained each spot of discomfort to my mind. Surprisingly, my stomach, arms and legs also quiver with weakness, as though I’ve put in hours at the gym.
The next room is quiet. He must have gone to the main house. My stomach falls. Is he filling the others in? Giving his review?
I pale. I clawed at him. Did I bite him? I wasn’t myself at all last night. I was just awful.
Though echoes of pleasure still ripple through my body, what if he doesn’t feel the same? Someone like Jaykob has probably been with dozens of experienced, sexy women who knew exactly how to blow his mind. I’m barely more than a virgin. What if he left so early because he doesn’t want to look at me? He was only “making do” with me, after all.
All the familiar doubts and self-consciousness that somehow abandoned me under his mouth and cock now come roaring back to life.
Though after we . . . did what we did . . . at least he didn’t sneer at me again. He’d fetched me water and something to eat, and gruffly rubbed arnica cream over my back and arms and legs, and when he stopped, we’d stared at each other so awkwardly that I was about to crawl under the bed to hide in embarrassment before he kissed me again.
Before he more than kissed me again.
I pick my clothes off the floor, then dubiously discard the torn panties. I’m about to put on the dress when I notice the top half of it is ripped down one side as well. With a sigh, I drop it. Unwilling to go back to the main house in my bare butt— there’s been enough of that on show, thank you very much—I go to the bedside table and look for a shirt.