Chapter 4: Fingers In My Hole

SERAPHINA

I can’t fucking sleep.

The guest room is too quiet, too dark, too full of the sounds I shouldn’t be listening to. Their bedroom door is clicking shut. The faint hiss of the shower in their bathroom. The low creak of the mattress as Dominic climbs in beside her. Every noise slices straight through me, reminding me he’s up there right now, skin still warm from my cunt on his tongue, chin probably still sticky with me, lying next to my sister as if nothing happened.

My body won’t calm down. It’s been hours since the kitchen and I’m still throbbing, still swollen, still leaking into my sleep shorts like a faucet he never turned off. He left me edgy and desperate on that counter, clit pulsing, pussy clenching around nothing while he wiped his face and went upstairs to play husband.

Bastard.

I kick the sheet off. The AC blasts cold air over my overheated skin but it only makes my nipples tighten harder under the thin tank top. My thighs rub together and I feel how slick they are, how fucking drenched I still am from his mouth, from the way he ate me like he was trying to crawl inside me.

I need to come. I need to finish what he started before I lose my mind.

My hand slides down fast, no hesitation. I shove the sleep shorts down just enough to get my fingers where I need them. No panties, couldn’t stand anything touching my oversensitive clit after the shower. Just bare, slippery flesh that’s been begging since he pulled away.

I spread my legs wide on the mattress, knees falling open, and drag two fingers through my folds. So wet the sound is obscene even in the quiet room, slick, sticky, filthy. I bite my lip hard to keep from moaning out loud.

In my head it’s him.

His rough voice in my ear. “You’re still dripping for me, aren’t you? Even after I left you shaking and unfinished. Touch that greedy little cunt for Daddy. Show me how bad you need it.”

I circle my clit once, slow, teasing, and my hips jerk off the bed. Too sensitive. Too worked up. Every nerve is screaming. I press harder, rubbing fast little circles the way he did with his tongue, and a whimper slips out before I can stop it.

Not enough.

I shove two fingers inside myself, deep, rough, trying to mimic the stretch of his thick digits. My walls flutter around them, greedy, sucking them in. I pump fast, curling hard against that spot he found so easily, the one that made me see white.

“Fuck—” The word escapes on a breath. I turn my face into the pillow and bite down on the cotton, muffling the next moan.

My other hand yanks my tank top up, exposing my tits to the cool air. Nipples so hard they ache. I pinch one, hard, imagining his teeth there instead, his mouth sucking bruises into my skin while he tells me I belong to him.

“These tits are mine,” his voice echoes in my skull. “This pussy is mine. You don’t come unless I say. But look at you, fucking yourself like a desperate little whore because Daddy didn’t finish the job.”

Yes. God yes.

I add a third finger. The stretch burns so good. My hips lift, fucking up into my hand, chasing that fullness he denied me. Slick runs down my wrist, soaking the sheets beneath me. The wet squelch of my fingers plunging in and out is loud.

I’m dripping everywhere. Thighs slick, ass wet, pussy clenching and gushing with every thrust. I can smell myself, musky, aroused, mixed with the faint leftover scotch on my skin from earlier.

In my mind, he’s here.

He’s pinning my wrists above my head with one hand while the other shoves four fingers into me, stretching me wide. His cock is out, thick and leaking, slapping against my clit every time he thrusts his hand deeper.

“You’re gonna come all over my fingers first,” he growls. “Then I’m gonna ram this cock so deep you’ll feel me in your throat. Gonna fuck you raw until you’re screaming my name and your sister hears every fucking sound from upstairs.”

The thought tips me closer.

I grind the heel of my palm against my clit while my fingers slam that spot, over and over, relentlessly. My whole body tightens. Thighs shaking. Toes curling. Breath coming in short, desperate pants into the pillow.

I’m right there.

“Please—” I whisper into the fabric, voice wrecked. “Please, Daddy, let me come. I need it, I need you, fuck, please—”

The orgasm slams into me like a fist.

My back bows off the mattress. A choked scream rips out before I can muffle it completely. My pussy clamps down hard around my fingers, spasming, gushing fresh slick that soaks my hand, my thighs, the sheets. Wave after wave crashes through me, violent, blinding, my hips jerking uncontrollably as I ride it out, milking every last pulse from my clenching cunt.

It lasts forever. Longer than any orgasm I’ve given myself before. My vision whites out. My toes cramp. My nipples throb in time with my heartbeat.

When it finally ebbs I collapse, trembling, sweaty, wrecked. Fingers still buried deep, walls fluttering weakly around them. Breath ragged. Chest heaving.

But even now, even after coming so hard I nearly blacked out, there’s still that hollow ache.

Because it wasn’t him.

It was my own fingers. My own hand. My own pathetic imagination while he’s upstairs, probably hard as fuck under the covers next to her, remembering how I tasted.

The guilt tries to slither in now, post-orgasm clarity creeping at the edges.

It gets shoved right back down.

I pull my fingers out slowly, slow, obscene drag, and they come away glistening, coated thick with my release. Without thinking I bring them to my mouth and suck them clean. Taste myself, salty, tangy, musky, and imagine it’s his tongue licking me off his own fingers after he’s done ruining me.

I lie there panting for a minute, savoring the aftershocks still rippling through me.

Then I hear it, footsteps. Soft voices drifting down from upstairs.

They’re awake. Elena must be feeling better. Which means dinner. Which means I have to go downstairs, sit across from him at the table, pretend I’m not still throbbing between my legs from thinking about his cock while I came screaming into a pillow.

I drag myself up. Legs shaky. Thighs sticky. Pussy tender and swollen.

I head to the bathroom, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face. My reflection looks back—cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw, hair a tangled mess. I look like I just got fucked.

Close enough.

I change fast. Yellow sundress—sweet, innocent, the perfect good-sister outfit. Brush through my hair until it falls in soft waves. Dab on lip gloss. Smile at the mirror like I don’t have his name still echoing in my head.

Perfect camouflage.

But underneath the dress I’m bare—no panties, no bra—because the thought of fabric rubbing against my still-sensitive clit while I sit across from him at dinner makes me clench all over again.

I’m going downstairs like this.

Wet. Aching. Ready.