Chapter 21 Twenty-One
Fianna.
The water had been cold, a punishing, useless spray against my skin. But, It did nothing. It was like trying to put out a forest fire with a teaspoon. I stood there, shivering, my nipples hard as pebbles against the icy needles, thinking maybe the shock would reset my system. It didn’t. It just made my skin feel tight and sensitive, a thin, buzzing layer over the fucking inferno raging underneath.
I toweled off roughly, my skin flushing pink, and pulled on the softest, oldest pair of cotton pajama pants and a loose tank top. I flopped onto the bed, the cool sheets were a relief that lasted about three seconds.
Then the restlessness came back, a crawling itch under my skin, centered deep in my belly, in my fucking cunt. I groaned, rolling onto my stomach, burying my face in my pillow. I bit down on the fabric, a muffled, frustrated sound tearing from my throat. My hips shifted, grinding down against the mattress. The pressure was a tease, a maddening whisper of what I needed.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This was insane. This was a new level of pathetic. I had been horny before, sure. Who hasn’t? But this was a consuming, humiliating need. It was a physical ache, a throbbing emptiness that felt like it was spreading through my veins.
My pussy was swollen, puffy and hot between my legs, a persistent, demanding pulse that synced with my heartbeat.
And the worst part, the most shameful, fucking degrading part, was that my mind kept supplying the same damn image. Not some faceless, fantasy man. Not the memory of the last guy I had fucked, which had been… fine.
No. It was Kian.
Kian’s big, rough hands, the ones I had seen when he would casually flex. Kian’s thick arms, the ones currently, probably, resting on the arm of the couch just down the hall, veins tracing paths under his skin. I wanted those arms to cage me against this bed, to press my wrists into the mattress until I couldn’t move.
I wanted his long, blunt-tipped fingers to pinch and twist my nipples until I cried. I wanted him to smack my cunt, to hurt, to feel the sting and the shock and the way it would make my swollen lips tremble and weep. I wanted him to fuck me. To just shove his cock into me, that thick, long cock I could only imagine, and pound into this desperate, empty ache until it was filled, until it was stretched and used and sated.
I moaned into the pillow, the sound ragged. My own hands moved to my breasts, squeezing them through the thin cotton of my tank top. My nipples were so hard they ached, little points of frantic sensation. I ground my hips down again, a slow, shameless roll. The fabric of my pajama pants was a torment. A barrier.
This is ridiculous, I thought. You’ve gone three years mostly fine. Dildos work. Dildos are safe. Dildos don’t have his stupid, handsome face or his low, gravelly voice.
But my body wasn’t listening. My body was a traitor. My thighs squeezed together, the muscles clenching, and the friction against my soaked, sensitive lips was a lightning bolt. My cunt throbbed, a wet, hungry pulse. I had two fucking showers. I tried to think about tax forms. Nothing worked.
A low, animal groan ripped out of me. The idea, the insane, reckless idea, of just getting up, walking down the hall, and knocking on his door… it flashed through my mind, bright and terrifying. No. Never. Absolutely the fuck not.
My phone was on the nightstand. My salvation and my damnation. I grabbed it, my fingers fumbling. The screen was too bright. I went straight to the site, the one with the little red icon, my search history a monument to lonely nights. I scrolled, not even seeing the titles, just looking for the vibe. Rough. Possessive. A man taking what he wanted. I found one, clicked play, and turned the volume down low.
I shoved the duvet off completely. The air in the room was cool on my overheated skin. Sitting back against the headboard, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my pajama pants and shoved them down my legs, kicking them off the side of the bed. The air hit my bare pussy, and I shuddered. I could smell myself, my own arousal, a musky, sweet scent that just made me dizzier with need.
On the phone screen, a woman was pinned to a wall, her legs wrapped around a man’s waist as he hammered into her. The sounds were muffled by my low volume, but I could hear the slap of skin, her choked cries. I spread my thighs wide, letting the cool air wash over my drenched folds. My cunt lips felt plump, swollen with blood, glistening under the dim light from my bedside lamp.
My clit was a hard, desperate little nub, peeking out from its hood, throbbing in time with the empty, aching pulse inside me.
My fingers went to it first, shaky and impatient. I gave it a rough, circular rub. Oh, god. The sensation was so sharp, so immediate, it stole my breath. A low, ragged moan slipped out. I wasn’t being quiet. I couldn’t be. The need was a beast, and it was clawing its way out of my throat.
I grabbed my breast with my other hand, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching my nipple through the cotton, the twin pains a bright counterpoint to the building pleasure between my legs. My fingers left my clit, slick with my own juices, and I didn’t even think. I pushed two fingers into my cunt.
It was a tight, wet slide. My inner walls clenched around them instantly, greedy, trying to pull them deeper. I was so fucking soaked. My juices coated my fingers, my palm, making a soft, obscene sound as I started to fuck myself with them. I curled my fingers, searching, and there—a rough, textured patch inside that made my whole body jolt.
“Fuck,” I breathed out, my head falling back against the headboard. My eyes were half-closed, watching the porn, but I wasn’t really seeing it. I was seeing Kian. I was feeling Kian. I imagined it was his cock, thick and veined and stretching me wider than my fingers ever could. I imagined his grunts in my ear, his hands on my hips, holding me down for his thrusts.
I fucked myself harder, my arm pumping, the heel of my hand grinding against my clit with every inward stroke.
My toes curled into the sheets. My other hand mauled my breast, twisting my nipple until it burned. The sounds I was making were shameless, guttural moans, sharp gasps, the wet, rhythmic squelch of my fingers plunging in and out of my drenched hole.
“Yes… fuck… right there…” I was talking to the phantom in my head, my voice a broken whisper. My hips lifted off the bed, meeting the thrust of my own hand, fucking myself back onto my fingers. The coil in my belly was winding so tight, a spring of pure, desperate tension.
I was close. So close. The heat was pooling, my inner muscles fluttering wildly around my invading fingers. I could feel the orgasm building, a tidal wave of release just waiting to crash over me.
My eyes, glazed and unfocused, drifted from the phone screen to my bedroom door.
And I froze.
The door wasn’t fully closed. I must have left it open a crack when I left the living room with annoyance. Just a two-inch sliver of darkness from the hallway. And in that darkness, I saw a shift. A solid, unmoving shadow that hadn’t been there before.
My hand stilled inside me. The wet, rhythmic sounds stopped. My breath hitched, caught in my throat, a mixture of terror and a sudden, shocking spike of white-hot excitement.
From the darkness, a low, gravelly growl cut through the silence of my room, deeper and more real than any sound from my phone.
“Don’t you fucking stop.”
Kian’s voice. Raw. Commanding. It wasn’t a question. It was an order.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat. I couldn’t see his face, just the dark outline of his broad shoulders filling the doorway. But I could hear his breathing, ragged and heavy. I could smell him, his clean, masculine scent cutting through the sweet musk of my own arousal.
“Keep fucking that pretty little cunt with your fingers,” he growled, the words filthy and precise. “Just like the desperate little whore you are.”
A broken cry tore from my lips. His words didn’t shame me; they unlocked me. They poured gasoline on the fire. My fingers, which had gone still, began to move again, a slow, tentative slide. Then faster. Driven by his voice, by the sheer fucking audacity of him standing there, watching me.
He wanted to watch..? Fine. I would give him a fucking filthy show.
I moaned, loud and open-mouthed, my head falling back. My eyes were locked on the shadow in the doorway. My hips began to piston up again, meeting the frantic thrust of my hand. The sound was loud in the quiet room.
And then I saw his movement. A slow, deliberate stroke in the darkness. He was jerking his cock. I could see the faint gleam of pre-cum on the head, a wet spark in the dim light from my lamp. The shape of it in his fist was long, thick, the silhouette of a curve that made my mouth water and my cunt clench violently around my fingers.
“Faster,” he demanded, his voice strained.
I obeyed. I fucked myself with a brutal, punishing rhythm, my fingers slamming into that rough, perfect spot inside me over and over. My other hand clawed at my breast, pulling the tank top down, exposing my nipple to the cool air, pinching and pulling it until my eyes watered. The pleasure was a sharp, bright blade, slicing through me. I was babbling.
“Kian… oh, god… I’m… I’m gonna…”
“Cum,” he finished for me, his voice a harsh rasp. The sound of his own stroking sped up. “I want to hear you cum on your own fingers, Fianna. Then I’m going to spill my fucking load all over this hallway thinking about your tight, soaked pussy.”
That was it. The coil snapped.
My back arched off the bed, a strangled scream ripping from my throat. The orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was an explosion. It detonated in my core, a blinding white heat that radiated out to my fingertips and toes. My cunt convulsed around my fingers, gripping, milking, a series of intense, fluttering spasms that dragged the pleasure out, second after agonizing second.
My juices gushed, flooding my hand, dripping down my wrist, soaking the sheets beneath me. My vision whited out, my body shaking uncontrollably, every muscle locked in ecstatic release.
Through the roaring in my ears, I heard his own climax, a deep, guttural groan that was almost a roar, a sound of pure, animal release. I heard the wet, rhythmic pumps of his fist slow, then stop. I heard his heavy, exhausted breathing from the doorway.
I heard everything.
I collapsed, boneless, onto the soaked sheets. My fingers slid out of me, dripping. My chest heaved. I was a mess, sweaty, dripping, completely exposed.