Dark Notes(92)

“I’m giving this to you. Just this once.” He reaches over his head and grips the laddered rungs of the headboard. “My hands won’t move. I’m going to lie here and hold still while you f*ck me.”

Oh.

Wow.

Okay, that’s…different. And really nice.

Until I gaze down at the huge, long cock rising up in front of me. How does this work? He wants me to…sit on that thing?

I meet his eyes, shaking my head. “I’ve never…”

His fingers blanch around the rungs, his expression pained. Is that anger?

“Never been on top?” he growls.

“Never.” Nervous energy trickles through me. I grip his shaft with both hands, stroking up and down, reacquainting myself with his size. “I don’t know, Emeric. Can I even fit…?”

His breath rushes out. “Dammit, Ivory. It’ll fit.” The sinews in his forearms strain with his hold on the headboard. “You’re f*cking tormenting me here.”

Flexing his thighs beneath me, he pins me with a look that is so integral to who he is. The almighty confidence in his eyes tells me to shut up and pay attention because he’s about to share a mind-blowing experience with me. It’s his most powerful expression, one that’s probably gotten him laid, without a single spoken word, more times than I care to think about.

“That look you’re giving me…” I squeeze my fingers around his cock, enjoying the sound of his strangled breath. “Do you do that when you’re performing on stage?”

His hips shift beneath me, his voice tortured. “What?”

“Do you eye f*ck women in the audience?”

“Ivory, get on my dick before I lose my f*cking mind.”

I bend down and place a kiss on the bulbous crown in an affectionate greeting. The next kiss is a plea to be gentle.

Then I rise on my knees and position him between my legs.

True to his word, he doesn’t thrust or move his hands. His eyes glow like blue flames as he waits for me to draw him inside.

I lower onto him, inch by inch, marveling at the stretching sensation, the easy slide, the perfect fit. It’s never this wet, this careful. Fuck, I feel so full. Hungry. Relieved.

The sound of his guttural groan spurs me faster. When he’s all the way in, I squeeze my inner muscles around him.

His eyes clamp shut, muscles flexing in his jaw, his body shaking beneath me. I don’t think he’s breathing.

“Emeric?”

A throaty grunt is the only response he gives, charging my already overloaded senses with giddiness. And I haven’t even moved yet.

I lean forward and press my lips to the ridge of his tense chest. “This is it. We’re doing it.”

His eyes fly open, and he releases a pained laugh. “We’re not doing anything.” His hands tighten around the headboard, his glare hard and demanding. “Fuck my cock, Ivory.”

I roll my hips, testing the feel of him sliding against my insides and filling me with jolts of static.

His entire body trembles beneath me. “Faster.”

With my palms on his chest, I rotate along his shaft, lifting and rocking. The dragging, tickling strokes are unreal. The little shocks of electricity, the panting sounds of our breaths, everything centers around where we’re joined.

He raises his head, watching me intensely. “Ride it.”

I do, willingly and with abandon.

“Fucking grind it.” His hand slips from the headboard, but just as quickly, he adjusts his grip. “Harder, Ivory. Deeper.”

I let loose, lifting my arms behind my head, closing my eyes, and circling my hips. When I bounce, my breasts sway and the bed frame creaks. When I bear down and rock, my clit catches fire.

I could come like this. A bona-fide orgasm. With a cock inside me. Mr. Marceaux’s cock. Hard to ignore the significance of that.

“Ah, f*ck.” The headboard groans in his grip. “Look at you.”

I open my eyes and collide with his, a smile pulling at my cheeks. “I’m f*cking my teacher.”

“Jesus Christ, Ivory.” His biceps flex above his head, his thighs hardening beneath me. “Give me your mouth.”

I slide up his chest and thrust my hips, delighting in the feeling of the new angle. When I reach his lips, his tongue seeks mine, twirling and tasting.

He snaps his teeth at me, his muscles bunching and twitching. “Your sloppy cunt is dripping all over me.”

His filthy mouth strengthens the brewing tide inside me. I sweep my hands over his biceps and cup his face, the scratch of his stubble scraping my palms. He deepens the kiss, the strong stretch of his jaw as erotic as the sinful way he glides his tongue.

I miss his hands on me, though, and the bite of his belt, his painful pleasure. I don’t like his silence, either. I ache for his growly orders commanding my every move. But he seems incapable of talking all of a sudden. With his body so rigid and hard, I suspect it’s taking a heavy dose of concentration to not move his hips or let go of the rungs.

No more torturing.

With my hands on his face, I kiss him fiercely, passionately, while working my * up and down his length, searching for the spot. When I find it, all of my nerves, cells, and thoughts rush to my womb, gathering, pressurizing, and exploding through my body in a pounding series of percussions.

My mouth opens in a soundless scream, my gaze locked on his eyes. His lips part with me, his pupils dilate, and his hands fly to the back of my head. Then he’s kissing me mercilessly, hammering his hips, and spiraling me through another orgasm.