บททั้งหมดของ Fifty Shades of Lust {Short Stories}: บทที่ 81 - บทที่ 90

I rolled onto my back and the sheet fell away completely, pooling around my hips like it had never been there at all. My cock stood rigid against my stomach, flushed dark red at the head, the slit already glistening with pre-cum that had leaked steadily during the massage. Every heartbeat sent another bead sliding down the shaft to pool in the dip of my navel. My balls were drawn tight, heavy with need. My thighs trembled slightly from the position and from the way Eli had been touching me for the last twenty minutes.Eli stood at the side of the table, still fully clothed in his team-issued black polo and grey athletic pants. The polo stretched across his shoulders and chest in a way that made my mouth water. His dark curls were mussed from running his fingers through them earlier, and there was a faint sheen of sweat at his temples even though the room was cool. His eyes were locked on my body, moving slowly from my face down to my chest, over the ridges of my abs that still carried

Eli stayed buried inside me for several long seconds after he bottomed out. Neither of us moved. We simply breathed together, chests pressed tight, foreheads touching, mouths open against each other’s skin. His cock throbbed steadily in the tight heat of my body, every pulse stretching me a fraction more, reminding me exactly how full I was. My own cock lay trapped between our stomachs, slick with pre-cum, aching from the pressure and the friction of his abs flexing every time he exhaled.I could feel the tremor in his arms where he braced himself above me. He was holding back, giving me time to adjust, even though his hips twitched with the need to move. Sweat beaded along his hairline and dripped onto my collarbone. The room felt hotter now, the air thick with the scent of lube, sweat, and sex. Rain continued to hammer the windows, a steady white noise that made everything inside this small space feel more intimate, more secret.“You good?” Eli whispered. His voice was low and strai

I didn’t stand at my mother’s grave because I needed closure.I stood there because his eyes were burning holes through the back of my black dress, and the second I met them I knew I would remember every filthy thing we had ever done.The cemetery sat on the edge of town, surrounded by old oak trees whose branches dripped with the morning’s mist. The sky was the colour of wet concrete, low and pressing, and a fine rain had started just as the priest began to speak. It turned the grass dark and slick under my heels. The hem of my dress dragged through mud, soaking up the earth like it wanted to pull me down with her.The coffin was simple mahogany, polished until it gleamed even under the dull light. White lilies rested on the lid in a perfect circle. Someone had chosen them because my mother had always loved lilies. I hated lilies. They smelled like funerals.I kept my gaze locked on the flowers. On the way the rain beaded on the petals and rolled off in slow drops. On the brass handl

Victor’s mouth was on me before I could draw another breath.He knelt between my spread thighs on the edge of my childhood bed, hands firm on the insides of my knees, holding me open like an offering. The quilt bunched under my hips. The room smelled of dust and old lavender sachets my mother used to tuck into the dresser drawers. Rain tapped against the windowpane in steady sheets. The bedside lamp cast a warm amber circle over us, turning his dark hair glossy and his shoulders golden.He looked up at me once, eyes stormy and searching, giving me one last chance to say no.I threaded my fingers into his hair instead.He groaned low in his throat and lowered his head.The first long, slow lick from my entrance to my clit made my back bow off the mattress. I cried out, sharp and broken, the sound echoing off the posters still taped to the walls. His tongue was hot. Wet. Deliberate. He flattened it against my swollen folds, dragging upward in one unhurried stroke, tasting every inch of

Victor held me against his chest for what felt like hours, though the clock on my nightstand said only twenty minutes had passed. His heartbeat had slowed to a steady, comforting rhythm under my ear. One hand stroked slow paths up and down my spine while the other rested possessively on the curve of my ass, fingers splayed wide like he was claiming every inch of skin he could reach. His cock had slipped out of me sometime during the long afterglow, but the mess we had made still coated my inner thighs, sticky and warm, a constant reminder of how many times he had filled me tonight.The rain had eased into a soft patter against the window. The house was quiet except for the occasional creak of old floorboards settling and the faint tick of the grandfather clock downstairs in the hallway. My mother’s clock. The one she had wound every Sunday evening without fail.I tried not to think about it.Victor shifted beneath me. His lips brushed my temple.“You’re thinking too much again,” he mu