The Pawn (Endgame 1)

I hear his breath catch. “More, little virgin.”

My tongue swipes the tip, the same way I felt his mouth on my clit.

He lets out a rough groan. “You’re going to kill me.”

There’s wetness inside my mouth that came from him. It’s thick and salty. “You taste like the sea.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, grasping my hair. This time he doesn’t wait for me to meet him. Instead he holds me steady as his hips cant forward, pressing his cock into my mouth. He pushes past my lips, past the tip of my tongue, until my mouth feels unbearably full of him.

“You okay?” he says on a rough breath.

I look up at him and nod, my mouth still full.

Then he pushes forward, more than I thought was possible. The blunt end of his cock fills my throat, and my eyes water. My body fights him, trying to push him out of where he doesn’t belong. He pulls back all on his own before thrusting in again.

His mouth on me felt invasive, but it’s nothing like this. I’m pinned to the stairs by the thick length of him, made to taste him, breathe him. As he pulls back, the ridge of him swipes over my tongue, and a small spurt lands in my mouth. I roll it around my tongue like it’s fine wine, as if I can sense what he’s made of by the flavor of his sex. It’s as complex as he is, as impenetrable and sharp.

He shoves back inside before I can fully drink it down, and I swallow almost around him. He gives a hard sound of pleasure. “I want to be all the way inside,” he mutters, sounding conflicted.

He isn’t all the way inside? God, he would spear me to my core. I make a mumbling sound of panic, trying to shake my head with his hard length holding me still.

His laugh is unsteady. “I’ll go easy on you.”

If this is easy, I can’t imagine what hard would be.

His hips find a pattern, the same one he teased me with on my clit. He pushes inside me, deep enough to feel my throat, before pulling out again. I get lost in the steadiness of it, like a ship being moved by the waves. There’s no controlling it, no fighting. The only thing left to do is ride them. I let myself be tossed forward and back, pushed and pulled. Used.

He moves faster, his breath coming ragged. The sound of his need does something inside me, and I feel my inner muscles clench. It’s strange that he can still touch my sex by fucking my mouth.

His roar begins low, almost a rumble. It ends with a sound of ferocity that reverberates through the library. I’m half-drunk on him, my mouth held open for his invasion. I wait for something that must come next—more of that salty flavor.

Instead he pulls back. I only have a moment to register the emptiness of my mouth, the ache in my jaw, before I feel the hot spray on my breasts. He paints my chest, my nipple. One high arc crosses my neck.

Blunt fingers push the come into my skin, rubbing it around. I feel impossibly marked. His. My skin tightens as he moves his seed over it. His, his, his.

His other hand reaches down to my clit, pinching hard. Fire overtakes me, flames licking my skin. I buck against his hand, making incoherent sounds, pleading. It’s too much, too hard. Too good. He doesn’t show any mercy, rubbing my clit with an intensity that wrings me out. My orgasm twists and twists, pulling tighter, until my muscles ache and my mouth is open in a silent scream.Chapter NineteenHe carries me upstairs, cradled in his arms like I’m something special. I know that I’m only here because he bid one million dollars. I know that he didn’t come inside me only so that I would remain a virgin. Somehow I still feel safe in his arms, as if the pure force of his will can keep reality at bay. We’re wrapped in something soft and pale, hidden from the world as he draws a bath and helps me inside. When I reach for the soap, he puts my hands on the curved edge of the tub. It’s his square-tipped fingers and calloused palms that cover my body with soap. He cleans every part of me, soothing the abraded skin of my nipples, slipping between the slick folds of my sex. My eyes are only half-open. I’m still lost in that place he sent me when I climaxed, a place of pleasure, of peace.

When he’s done, he helps me step out of the tub. A thick white towel dries me off while I stare at myself in the mirror. How many times have I showered before? How many times have the damp ends of my hair curled against my wet skin? Hundreds, thousands, and yet I look different. Still a virgin—by his definition. Different, though. A woman.