by Marata Eros
“Oh God,” she cries, her head falling all the way back.
God will not grant permission, but I will.
I drive my shoulders against her round ass, and the movement kicks her legs up behind and on either side of my head.
She pushes against my shoulders, but I continue to work the soap deep into the heated crevices of her pussy, rinsing her with the water that runs like a small river from her hips to her sex.
The button of her desire is a swollen bud beneath my lips—begging for attention.
Marissa stops pushing, watching my focus at the center of her. She finally gives me the permission I need, bringing her chin down in a jerking nod. “Yes,” she whispers.
I plunge forward, hammering her clit between my lips, and suck. Hard.
“Ah!” she says, crying out in a desperate gasp.
With one finger, I enter her partway. I find what she told me she had. I press against the thick barrier. Her eyes snap open, and I suck her clit harder, lightly biting as I move my finger against her hymen. Softening it.
Stretching.
Marissa shakes her head. “What—oh God—what are you doing?” she says, her fingers sinking into my wet hair. She yanks.
I ignore it and bury my face in her delicious cunt.
My face rises, soap and her juice clinging to my chin, and I answer, “Pleasuring you. Now let me finish.” I press my finger to the second knuckle, and the walls of her pussy spasm against me, her hips bucking.
“Okay,” she breathes and tosses her arm behind her, her fingers splayed on the cold tile.
“Move your hips against my face.”
Spreading her legs wider, Marissa shoves herself against me, driving my finger deeper. She sucks in a breath at what I know from experience is painful.
“Harder,” I growl against her wetness and plunge deeper. I feel her barrier stretch, and I clamp my lips around her clit—pulling the sensitive flesh deep.
Marissa yells and cums as I knew she would. With abandon.
Ferociously.
I work her clit as her pussy pulses around my seeking finger. Her tight trench closes around the single digit like a vise of velvet flesh.
“Yes,” I hum against her bundle of nerves, and Marissa screams as she cums a second time. I grin against her slick heat.
Perfect. Except my erection needs deflating.
I circle her clit with my tongue. A slow letdown of small orgasms quakes against me, and my teeth press against the swollen head of her arousal. I peel the hood back and kiss the raw nerves, and she jumps against my mouth.
Selfish Shepard lifts his head and lies down against the opposite side of the tub.
Water falls like rain between us.
Marissa blinks in the post-coital slow-motion way all women have when sufficiently pleasured.
My cock stands at painful, throbbing attention. I wave a palm toward myself. Her eyes grab ahold of my erection and widen.
Marissa gets up on her knees, snatching up the same soap I just used on her, and slowly lathers it, her eyes never leaving mine. Hot water falls against her bare back, and her breasts move independently of her actions, rolling seductively between her handsʼ rotation. Suds slide down her forearms, obscuring her dark mocha nipples.
“Turnabout is fair play.” She lifts a shoulder, and the delicate striated muscles play at the joint.
I shake my head. “It is payment.”
Marissa frowns, and I grab the back of her neck. Her hands fall to my thighs with a wet slap.
My eyes search her, fevered, intense. “Never forget who I am. What I am.”
Her fingertips bite into the flesh of my thighs. I embrace the pain while Marissa sketches the scars of my body with her eyes.
“Suck you or nothing.” Her face wears the horror of where I've put us, her head straining against my hold.
I softly shake my head and whisper, “Suck me and get everything.” My words are true, my actions hard.
Marissa drops the soap and lowers her face as her lips circle the sensitive tip of my cock.
I know what will happen before she does. She moves down the length of me once. Twice.
I groan, my hands moving to her head and holding her in place. I cum from my feet, blasting everything I have into her mouth. At first she uselessly struggles.
Then she does what she has to.
Swallowing me down. Deeply. All that I give her.
TWELVE
Marissa
Can't breathe.
Shepard shoves me to the root of his cock. And no matter how many times I've sucked men off—and there have been many, many times—I can never quite get past the sensation of drowning. Suffocating.
I've never had a man go down on me before.
The orphanage wasn't about my pleasure. It was about theirs.
Now, as the hot jets of his seed course down my throat, I reflexively swallow.
Payment, he said.
My hands grasp his balls, and he tenses. That's when I know he's been grabbed before and not liked it.
It's been pain.
Finally, he loosens his hands from my head, and I lift my own, shaking from the intensity of my orgasms that still feel like aftershocks from deep within. Trembling from the first blow job I've given that I actually wanted to give, though the beginning was the roughest thing I could have imagined. It wasn't romantic. Anticipated. Predictable.
But the act was the hottest thing I've ever done.
Shepard's dark eyes are hooded as he surveys me. “I did fuck you.”
I frown, sitting back on my heels. I blink.
The hot water drums against the tub, landing on his softening prick. I move forward, lying on top of him, and my head rests on his flat belly.
I feel his heart beat against my cheek.
“Sex is not always intercourse, Marissa.”
I don't speak, but a tear rolls out of my eye and sinks like forgotten grief between us.
I sense his hand hovering over my head and turn my face to look up at him.
His hand drops, beginning to stroke my drenched head. “Americans. All of you think there must be penetration for the act to be intercourse.” His fingers gently pull my head back so that our gazes lock. “Tell me what we just shared is not sex.”
His dark eyes search me.
I can't. It was so sex to me. “I can't. It—us”—I feel my face heat—“was everything sex should be but hasn't been before.”
Shepard's eyebrows rise. “I suspect that is not the first time you've pleasured a man.”
My face hikes, my jaw hard. “It's the first time I wanted to.”
We stare at each other for a long minute.
“You have no family.” He states it like a fact. It should be. We're both orphans by our own admission.
I look away. “No.”
“Nor I.”
Our gazes hold again. Shepard straightens, and I move back on my heels. He reaches behind him and shuts the water off.
The drips from the faucet echo in the sudden silence.
He stands, holding out his hand.
I look up. Way up. My eyes travel from his balls to his muscled stomach and broad chest. His veins stand out like slick ropes beneath his smooth skin.
I swallow and take the proffered hand.
He yanks me to a stand, and our bodies slap together, damp—hot.
Shepard bends to the crook of my neck. He licks, pressing his lips against my throbbing pulse.
I moan, my head falling to the side, and his arms encircle me, his large hands spreading against my lower back.
“Why?” I ask breathlessly.
He pulls back, giving me a circumspect look. “Pourquoi?”
I nod. “You've admitted that you used to be these guys. Those guys that were going to take me.”
Shepard's smile is gentle, but he grabs my hips, his fingers biting.
“No.” He shakes me. “I am not they. I was a teacher of women, not a kidnapper.”
I push
away and slip, and he catches me roughly. With ease, Shepard steps out of the tub and sets me on my feet.
“What's the difference?” I ask, stepping away from him and folding my arms beneath my breasts.
I was nude a minute ago. Now I feel naked.
Shepard eats the small distance I erected between us.
I back up against the wall, and the towel bar presses uncomfortably against my spine.
His strong arms run along my temples, his fists hitting the wall on either side of my face.
I give a short coughing yell of surprise, my eyes clenching shut.
“No.” He tips my chin. “You shall look at me when I speak to you.”
Oh God, oh God—I sucked his cock—I let him, this dangerous man, lick and kiss my most tender place. My most secret.
His grip tightens on my chin.
My eyes fly open.
“Better,” he says, his fingers going from crushing to soft in an instant.
“I can't be with a man I'm afraid of,” I say quietly.
He chuckles, releasing me and stepping away.
My body's cold without Shepard.
“These weak males who think to pass for men do not know what it is to be one.” Shepard gives a dismissive wave behind his shoulder.
I slowly follow him, grabbing a remaining towel off the bar as I go by and wrapping it around myself.
The view of his naked ass is all consuming, and I sort of wonder when I lost my mind. Was it when that Hugo creep jumped me?
Or when Shepard kind of kidnapped me?
Saved me.
Kissed me there. My face goes up in flames as I think about how I rode his mouth.
Apparently I don't even care we're most likely on the run for our very lives. That if this French mob catches up, they're going to kill Shepard for murdering the guys he was supposed to meet.
And for taking me.
They'll still take me. I know that now. They wasted one of their people on watching me until the time was right. La famille, as Shepard calls them, were banking on Shepard's help. They were that sure of him.
Thinking about the kind of absolute faith responsible for an unshakable assumption—because of the way they shaped him to play the kind of role he did—causes me to shiver. “And what makes you more a man than them?” I ask, totally baiting him.
He whirls. His cock, even flaccid, is something I'm beginning to entertain wanting inside me. Deep inside.
Shepard stalks toward me, a man so obviously dangerous, I'm unable to deny it, but I stay where I am. Trusting him without too much solid reason behind the impulse.
Trusting that Shepard didn't take me from my home only to harm me.
“Do not challenge me, Marissa Augustine. I am the only thing keeping you from la famille.”
My pulse quickens at his restating of the facts. “I know,” I say through clenched teeth, “but that doesn't mean that we're just going to fall into each other's arms. We don't know each other. I don't know if they're going to get me, anyway.” I throw my hands out.
He ignores my logic, sidestepping the fact that we absolutely just did fall into each other's arms.
“I can negotiate for you.”
My gaze drops to his dick again, and it's halfway to hard. “How can you get hard again?” It's a humorous question, my lips quirking.
His expression isn't. It's cold. Hard.
I frown. “Hey—sorry.”
“My prick is a tool. That fact was made excruciatingly clear from the very beginning. I can make my cock hard with a solid thought.”
My breath lodges in my throat, but I manage to ask softly, “Do I make you hard, Shepard?”
His smile is not real, but it stretches across his face. “Yes. I want to bury myself in your virgin pussy.”
I flinch at the coarse way he replies. “Is that what being a man to you is, Shepard?” I toss at him.
He closes the three-foot distance between us, jerking me against him. “Non. Being a man is having the restraint to resist a bounty that is for the taking.”
He shoves me away, and I stumble, catching myself on the couch behind me. My hands grip the edge of the scratchy fabric, and I glare at him.
He ignores me, yanking a zipper open at the top of a small suitcase. All black. Like his foul temper.
“You're being a dick.” I watch the muscles bunch in his shoulders and close my eyes at the memory of those shoulders lifting my hips so he could have better access to me.
Yeah. That's me. Wet and willing. Shame engulfs me. Shepard can't help that he was at the right place at the right time.
But why save me? Why kill those guys? It would have been easier to just let them have me and say no to their offer again. He told me he'd already said no for a year straight.
“And your conduct is so marvelous,” he declares, stabbing first one leg then the next through boxer briefs. They are a pale pink color.
I laugh.
His eyebrow crooks.
I point at his underwear.
“What are you laughing at?” He glowers, which, of course, makes me laugh harder.
That gets guys going. Laugh at their crotch. See what happens.
Shepard walks to me, gripping my shoulders. “What is so amusing?”
“You're wearing pink boxers.”
His grin is broad and immediate. Real.
I stop laughing.
Shepard's fingers slide down my bare arms, carefully avoiding my breasts. My nipples pebble instinctively as a river of gooseflesh breaks over my skin, following his caress.
“I am French. Our standards and fashion are not nearly as constrained as that of Americans. What did you expect? White?” He snorts, adjusts his considerable package, and faces away from me.
Standing, I slip my arms around his toned torso, the ropes of his scar rough underneath my cheek. “I'm sorry I was a bitch. I'm scared. And you've made me horny. A first.”
His hands tentatively cover mine. “Why have you allowed no men to conquer you?”
I laugh softly against his skin, and he shudders underneath my touch. “Conquer?” I snort. “That's so simple, I'd think you'd know the answer.”
“I could guess, but I choose not to.”
So I speak to his back. Every detail—all the smeared shame of what I couldn't control. The events that led me to who I am now.
Hard. Afraid. Strong.
Unassuming.
Fragile.
His chin sinks toward his chest as I end my tale, and I nestle my face between his shoulder blades. “Now you know how used I really am,” I admit. I hold my breath, awaiting his judgment.
It never comes.
“No more than myself.” Shepard turns me to face him.
I don't realize I'm crying until his thumbs remove the wet stains of my remorse.
His dark eyes find mine. “I made the choice. I would have told la famille no, again. The difference was, when I saw you, I felt something.” He brings our clasped hands to his chest above where his heart beats.
“I cannot be a soft man, Marissa. Too much of me has been fashioned by la famille. But the right woman could possibly fit what I am now.”
“What are you now?” I ask in a quiet voice, my eyes searching his. This man I've known two days. And in just as long, he's turned everything I know upside down.
“A man without purpose.”
“I know what I want,” I say, and I realize I shouldn't have said that last thing. Because it invites the question he asks next.
“What do you want?” Shepard tilts his head and reaches out, grasping my left breast, and an involuntary moan slips from between my lips.
His thumb swings to my nipple, and I cry out softly. Shepard pinches the stiff nub of flesh, catching my head with his other hand as it falls back.
“Marissa,” he says softly, his hot breath above my nipple. When his mouth sinks around the peak, I gasp.
“You,” I say.
“Say it. Say it, mon chéri.”
; He lifts me, and my legs wrap his waist. His huge cock splits my labia and presses against my clit like a torch of flesh.
“I can't.” I won't admit how I'm feeling, even to myself.
I've already confessed all the sins of my past to Shepard, as if he's a priest instead of the corrupter of virgins with the French mob. But he's really not that man anymore.
Shepard's looking for absolution.
Like me.
Maybe, just maybe, we can find it with each other.
Shepard walks through a doorway with me clinging to him like a monkey. The bed fills my vision before he dumps me on its soft surface.
I bounce.
Shepard stands before me, all hard male. Only him.
Only me.
“I want you to fuck me.” I don't stumble over the words.
“Do you know what you're asking me to do, Marissa?” His query is hushed and somehow relentless.
I nod. I know.
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Own me.”
He strips his boxers off, and I see him clearly for the first time, every inch.
Lots of inches.
Finally, I raise my face and search his eyes. They're the most serious I've ever seen in my life.
He walks toward the bed, his cock bobbing with each step.
“Oui,” he replies in a dark whisper.
Then he's on me.
THIRTEEN
Shepard
I take where I shouldn't.
I promised to be a new creature. No longer of la famille but separate. Very much like the famed passages of the good book, which I vaguely remember my parents ascribing to.
Instead, they are gone, and I have but echoes of their memory. Sometimes, that is enough. In this moment, it is not.
Marissa lies like an elegant living and breathing doll. Unbroken, only fractured.
The question remains: can I take from her and give something in return?
This act we're about to commit will ruin her for la famille. If they come for her, she will no longer be a virgin. Her value will be reduced. But not enough not to take her.
I lower myself between her legs, lightly skimming my fingers against her inner thighs.
She tips her head back, and all that damp, tightly kinked hair flows over her smooth shoulders as her gray eyes light on my face.
