These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

I’m a creaming mess.

Not that I wasn’t before.

But I’m pretty sure that I’ve already orgasmed again because my channel won’t stop pulsing. My channel won’t stop gushing. And somewhere in the last few seconds, I probably blinked or something because the next thing I know, his glorious, rippling, muscled flesh is revealed.

And Jesus Christ, he does have a V.

But before I can marvel over it, he comes down at me.

Not all the way though.

He leans over me, both his hands on either side of my face, his long hair making a super sexy and masculine curtain over his forehead and my arms reach up to him.

My hands grip his biceps and I even raise my thighs and wrap them around his hot, naked sides like some kind of shameless, horny gymnast.

In a very guttural and deep voice, he says, “I’m an asshole, Bronwyn. Your Coach Thorne is a cruel selfish asshole. For doing that to you. For putting you through bullshit again.”

I roll my head from side to side. “No, please. I just… I just want…”

“Especially when every day I stand by that wall. And I smell it.”

"What?”

“I stand by the wall where you stand and rub my nose on the bricks, hoping to catch a whiff of you. And when I do, I fucking open my mouth and drink it down. Your Coach Thorne drinks you down and then he bangs his head on the wall for doing that. For doing something so depraved. And then, even though he’s cursing at himself, hating himself for wanting his forbidden little wallflower, he goes to his chair. He sits on it and he opens her rosy pink letter. He opens it and reads it himself.”

I’m shuddering now, arching my back, digging my nails into his biceps. “C-Conrad, please.”

“And when I do my dick gets hard. It gets harder,” he tells me, his stomach contracting. “Because it’s usually already hard the moment you enter through the door and it stays that way until you leave. But when I read your letters, Bronwyn, when I see those words written in your delicate, flowery handwriting, I lose my shit. My dick throbs. It pulses and drop after drop of pre-cum slides down my cock. But I don’t jack off, no. Because I’m punishing myself, see. I’m fucking punishing myself for wanting something so young and sweet. But I was wrong, wasn’t I?

“Because all this time I was punishing you too. I was torturing you. Making you wait, making you suffer under my hands when every night, you make yourself for me. You decorate yourself. You write my name on every inch of your body so sweetly. You make flowers on it. My wallflower makes flowers on her body for her thorn and instead of cherishing that, instead of kissing every inch of her body, I make her flesh burn. I color her pink and bruised. But not anymore, you got that?”

“Conrad, you don’t —”

“I’m not going to let you hide from me. Not from me,” he says, his biceps bunching under my hands. “Not like you’ve had to do with others.”

My heart squeezes again.

I know what he’s referring to. I know what he’s getting at, my parents, my town, and I just… I just want him here. On me. In me. Close to me.

“Conrad,” I whisper because that’s all I can do in the face of so much love pressing down on me.

For him.

“I’m not going to let you keep any more secrets,” he insists. “Nothing will come between us, Bronwyn. I’m going to destroy everything that does. Even that tiny piece of flesh.”

“T-tiny piece of flesh?”

He lowers himself slightly, his arms straining, bending as if he’s about to do a push-up. “That tiny piece of flesh that I’m obsessed with. That keeps you tight and pure.”

My channel pulses for the millionth time tonight.

Or maybe it never stopped.

“My virginity?”

He lowers even more at this and I arch my back, my bruised nipples grazing his hard chest. My pussy rubbing on his bare stomach now that he’s lowered enough for me to do so.

“Yeah. Your virginity.” A puff of breath escapes him. “And I’m not only obsessed with it, no. I’m not only constantly, constantly thinking about sticking my tongue down there, inside your rosy hole, so I can taste it, that tiny piece of flesh. In my fucking mouth. Before I rip it with my dick. Like I just did.”

“Y-you…”

“Yeah. And it tastes as good as your pussy. Rosy.”

My channel pulses, remembering that pressure inside me when he stuck his tongue inside. And I keep rubbing my wet, creaming hole on the tight ridges of his abs as I ask, “W-what else are you thinking about?”

“I’m also thinking about the fact that it’s there for me,” he rumbles, his fingers fisting the sheets. “That you’ve kept it, your hymen, all unbroken and intact for me. I’m arrogant enough to think that all these years, you’ve kept your legs closed and your skirts down to your knees so you can keep it all safe. From the rest of those assholes, those motherfucking fans of yours, because you’ve been waiting for me. You’ve been waiting for me to come and take it. You want my dick to steal it from you and make you bleed. And then you want my dick to paint your rose down there, your pretty pinky rose, with my cum. Me and no one else. That’s how arrogant and selfish I’ve been, Bronwyn. That’s how selfish and cruel your Coach Thorne is, who makes you stand by a wall and read out those letters and makes you hide your body from him.”