Chapter 22 22
POV Katherine
My whole body was trembling, as if an earthquake had shaken me from the inside and wouldn't stop.
I was on my knees on the kitchen floor, palms pressed against the cold tile, gasping as if I'd run a marathon. The air came in short bursts, burning my throat, and all I felt was him. Still inside me. His hot, thick semen filling me to the bottom, dripping slowly down my thighs in sticky threads that cooled against my skin.
I touched my lips with trembling fingers, swollen and sensitive, and there was his taste, salty and mine, mixed in my saliva. He'd kissed me as if he wanted to mark me, and now I had him in my mouth, on my skin, in the pussy that burned as if he'd set it on fire.
He'd taken me like an animal, without mercy, pinning me against the counter until I didn't know where I started and he ended. Every thrust had been a sharp slam, his thick cock ripping my walls, stretching me until it hurt and hurt good, that deep burn that rose through my belly and made me moan like a slut.
It felt so fucking good. No one had fucked me like that in years, maybe never.
Andrew was soft, predictable, a touch that didn't lead anywhere. But Elliot... God, Elliot had broken me, filled me with hot spurts that still throbbed inside, as if his cock were still pulsing, claiming territory. I felt it there, thick, coming out in slow pulses, and my body already missed it, empty without him.
I tried to stand, bracing one hand on the counter to push myself up. My knees didn't work. They buckled like jelly, and I fell back down, a moan escaping my throat.
The ache in my legs was sweet from how he'd spread me, from how he'd pushed my thighs until they trembled. I stayed there, breathing deep, sweat sticking my hair to my nape. The kitchen smelled like us: raw sex, my wetness and his cum, the torn skirt a crumpled rag on the floor.
I looked at my hands, trembling, and lowered one by instinct, between my legs. I touched my clit first, swollen and sensitive, a brush that made me gasp loud. It was wet, slippery with him and me, and I rubbed it softly, just to feel.
The heat came back all at once, a pulse that rose through my belly. I parted my lips with two fingers, exploring slowly, feeling how he'd left me: open, swollen, the inside of my walls still throbbing, coated in his milk that dripped thick. I slid one finger in, then two, and fuck, they fit easy, slippery from his cum. I moved it inside, curling it to touch where he'd been, and the burn mixed with a dirty pleasure that made me close my eyes.
"Elliot," I whispered, without wanting to, and the name came out like a moan. I got more excited, my clit pulsing under my thumb as I fucked myself with my fingers, imitating his brutal rhythm. They slid in and out, splashing in the mess we'd made, his semen smearing my hand, hot and sticky. I imagined his cock there, thick, veined, ripping me open again, and I sped up, rubbing my clit in fast circles, the pleasure rising like a fire burning my guts.
"Elliot, fuck, Elliot," I cried, my voice bouncing off the empty walls, and I came hard, my pussy contracting around my fingers, spurts of wetness coming out with every spasm. It wasn't soft; it was a burst that left me breathless, my legs trembling more, his semen mixing with my orgasm and dripping to the floor in dirty puddles. I came screaming his name, like a madwoman, and when the last pulse left me limp, the tears came on their own.
I cried, not hard, but a quiet sob that shook my chest. I was sinning, fuck, sinning in my own kitchen, masturbating with his cum inside while my husband was hundreds of miles away.
I felt regretful, a knot of guilt tightening my throat, but at the same time... it felt good. So good it hurt. Good like I didn't remember since before Ethan, before everything turned gray. Good like I was finally breathing.
I wiped my hand on my thigh, still trembling, and crawled out of the kitchen, because my legs couldn't do more. The floor was cold against my knees, and I felt his semen running down my thighs, hot and sticky, leaving a wet trail that made me blush with shame.
I crawled down the hallway, picking up the torn skirt with one hand, the bra dangling from the other. I climbed the stairs as best I could, one step at a time, ass in the air and pussy exposed, dripping. Every movement made his milk shift inside, a reminder that made me gasp.
I reached the upstairs bathroom and dragged myself to the mirror, standing with effort. I looked at myself. I didn't have a regretful face. I had a well-fucked face: swollen lips, red cheeks, eyes bright with fresh tears, messy hair, and red marks on my neck where he'd bitten me. I looked alive, fuck, not like the shadow I was before.