Chapter 103 Torturing in the sheets
The second the helicopter door opens and the night wind rushes in, he doesn’t give me the dignity of stepping out on my own.
He lifts me. Straight over his shoulder.
I yelp, half laughing, half outraged, my palms smacking lightly against his back.
“Darius!”
He doesn’t slow down.
“Now I know,” he says over the fading whir of the blades, striding toward the penthouse entrance like he owns the sky itself, “that you told me you weren’t wearing any underwear just to mess with me.”
I push at his shoulder, laughing harder. “Maybe I did.”
“You did.”
“I’m working toward forgiving you,” I say smugly, hair hanging down his back as he carries me toward the private elevator. “That means I’m allowed to torture you a little.”
He presses the elevator key with one hand, the other firmly securing me against him. The doors slide open.
He steps inside without setting me down.
“I don’t mind torture,” he replies calmly as the doors close and the elevator begins its ascent. “As long as I get to return the favor under the sheets.”
My stomach flips at the tone of his voice. Low. Certain. Possessive in a way that makes my pulse jump instead of recoil.The elevator ride feels endless.
The air is charged, heavy with anticipation and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with wind and adrenaline.
When the doors finally open, he doesn’t pause.
The penthouse floor is quiet, dimly lit, the city visible through floor-to-ceiling glass stretching endlessly beyond.
He carries me straight through the grand entry and into the living area.
Only then does he set me down.
But not gently.
He shifts me off his shoulder and deposits me onto the massive couch in one smooth motion.
I land with a soft bounce, breath catching. He steps back, already shrugging out of his suit jacket. It falls carelessly onto a chair. His tie follows. Then his shirt.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The fabric slides from his shoulders, revealing the ink winding down his arm,dark sleeve tattoo glistening faintly in the low light. Intricate lines trace muscle and scar, disappearing beneath his waistband.
My breath slows.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“Take off your dress,” he says quietly.
Not harsh.
Not shouted.
Just a command wrapped in heat.
I don’t move immediately.
Instead, I rise slowly from the couch.
The silk clings to my skin.
The room feels warmer than it did a moment ago.
His eyes don’t leave me.
I reach behind my neck and unfasten the first clasp.
Painfully slow.
His jaw tightens.
The second clasp slips free.
The dress loosens.
I let it slide inch by inch down my shoulders.
Over my breasts.
Over my waist.
Over my hips.
The silk pools at my feet.
And I stand there.
Bare.
Exposed in nothing but the city light filtering through glass.
The air conditioning hums softly overhead.
His gaze darkens.
“Turn around,” he says.
I don’t hesitate.
I turn.
And bend forward slightly, placing my palms against the back of the couch.
The cool air brushes against my bare skin.
It kisses my thighs.
My lower back.
My most sensitive places.
The sudden chill makes my body shudder, my nipples tightening, goosebumps rising along my arms.
I hear him inhale.
Sharp.
He steps closer.
I feel the heat of him behind me before he even touches me.
The contrast between the cool air and his warmth is dizzying.
His hands settle on my hips, thumbs pressing gently into my skin.
Not bruising.
But claiming.
“You like pushing me,” he murmurs.
“I like seeing you unravel.”
A low chuckle vibrates behind me.
He drops to his knees.
The shift in height sends a new wave of anticipation through me.
I feel his breath first.
Warm.
Close.
And then…..
His mouth.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t claim.
He explores.
Slow, deliberate movements that make my back arch instinctively.
My fingers clutch the couch.
The city lights blur beyond the glass as sensation pulls my focus inward.
He hums faintly against me, the vibration making my knees weaken.
“Darius—”
He grips my thighs more firmly, steadying me.
The air conditioning brushes against my overheated skin again, intensifying everything.
The contrast is maddening.My breathing grows ragged.
His tattooed arm flexes as one hand slides upward, fingers tracing my spine, grounding me while his mouth continues its slow torment.
I shudder.
He pauses only long enough to murmur against me, “Still think you’re torturing me?”
I can’t answer. Not properly. He stands.Slowly.
I hear the unmistakable metallic sound of his belt unbuckling.
The sound alone sends another tremor through me.He steps close again, his hands guiding my hips back toward him.
I braced myself, my breath hitching as I felt the slow, deliberate press of his cock against my entrance. He was teasing me, taking his time, and I was both frustrated and desperate for more.
Impatience got the better of me. I slammed back into him, my movement urgent and demanding. He let out a deep, guttural moan, his hands tightening on my hips as he began to thrust into me, his strokes forceful and deliberate. Each push of his hips drove him deeper, filling me completely, and I felt my walls clench around him, hungry and needy.
I turned my head, my gaze falling on the city lights below us, a glittering expanse that seemed to mirror the chaos of my thoughts. The contrast between the serene view and the raw, primal act we were engaged in was almost surreal. His thrusts were relentless, his body moving with a rhythm that was both punishing and exhilarating. I felt every inch of him, every stroke driving me closer to the edge.
"Ahhhh," I gasped, my voice breaking as he hit a spot deep inside me that made my knees weaken. His hands gripped my hips harder, his nails digging into my skin as he quickened his pace. The air was thick with the sounds of our bodies moving together,the wet slap of skin, our ragged breaths, the occasional moan that escaped my lips.
"You feel so fucking good," he growled, his voice hoarse with need. "So wet, so loose and fucked out around me." His words were like a spark, igniting a fire that had been smoldering inside me. I was drowning in sensation, my body alive and aching for release.
I reached back, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if I could draw him into me. "Harder," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of our bodies colliding. "Fuck me harder."
He didn’t need to be told twice. His thrusts became more brutal, more demanding, his cock pounding into me with a force that left me breathless. I could feel the tension building, a tight coil in my core that was ready to snap. The city lights blurred as my vision narrowed, my entire world narrowing down to the feel of him inside me, the pressure building to an unbearable point.
"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine. "Let go, Lyra."
His words were my undoing. My body exploded, my orgasm tearing through me like a storm. I cried out, my voice a mix of pleasure and desperation as my walls clenched around him, milking him, drawing out his own release. He followed me over the edge, his thrusts stuttering as he buried himself deep inside me, his seed spilling into me in hot, relentless pulses.
For a moment, we were still, our bodies trembling as we rode out the aftermath of our release. His breath was hot against my neck, his heart pounding against my back, and I felt a strange sense of peace, as if, for just a moment, the world outside didn’t exist.
But the peace was short-lived. He pulled out of me, his hands gently guiding me to stand. I turned to face him, my body still buzzing with the remnants of our encounter, and found myself drawn into his arms. His lips pressed against mine, the kiss slow and deep, a stark contrast to the raw intensity of what had just transpired.
"You drive me crazy ," he murmured against my lips, his voice soft but unwavering.
With a swiftness that surprised even me, I pushed him back onto the couch, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He let out a low chuckle, his amusement only fueling my determination. I straddled him, my bare thighs pressing against his, my hands gripping his wrists as I leaned in close. "I love driving you crazy," I whispered, my voice thick with challenge.
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise crossing his features, but he didn’t resist. Instead, he let his wrists remain in my grasp, his body relaxed beneath mine. I felt the power shift, the balance tipping in my favor, and it sent a thrill through me. I rose onto my tiptoes, my hips grinding down onto his, and then I started to bounce, the sound of my bare ass slapping against his thighs filling the air. The rhythm was primal, the noise echoing in the dimly lit penthouse, a stark contrast to the serene city lights outside.
He began to meet my thrusts, his hips pushing upwards, his hands tightening on my wrists. But just as I thought he’d surrender to my control, he stopped. With a sudden, fluid motion, he stood up, lifting me with him, his arms sliding under my thighs, holding me up in the air. My arms wrapped around his neck instinctively, my legs tightening around his waist as he started to move, thrusting into me with a force that made me gasp.
The position was dizzying, my body suspended, completely at his mercy. Yet, it was I who had initiated this shift, this reversal of roles. He lifted me up and down, his movements deliberate, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through me. The cool air conditioning brushed against my exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat building between us. I could feel the wetness between my legs, the slickness of our combined arousal, as he drove deeper with each movement.
"You think you can handle me, Lyra?" he growled, his voice low and taunting. His breath was warm against my ear, his lips brushing my skin as he spoke. I shivered, not from fear, but from the raw, unfiltered desire that surged through me."I’m not the one who’s going to be begging," he threatened. I tightened my legs around him, using my position to guide his rhythm, to dictate the pace. But he was stronger, his control undeniable. He lifted me higher, then slammed me down onto him, the impact making me cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders.
The sound of our bodies colliding filled the room, a wet, messy symphony of flesh and desire. His hands gripped my thighs, his fingers digging into my skin as he held me firmly in place. I could feel the muscles in his arms flexing with each movement, the power he exerted to keep me aloft. It was a reminder of his strength, of the dominance he could reclaim at any moment.
But for now, I was in control. Or so I told myself. I leaned forward, my lips brushing his ear, my breath hot against his skin. "You like this, don’t you?" he whispered, my voice dripping with teasing.
“I can barely…..”, I retorted breathless as a moan escaped my lips “ feel…. Oh yes.”
He let out a low, dark laugh, his hips snapping upwards in response. "You’re the one who’s going to be begging for mercy," he countered, his voice a dangerous purr. His teeth grazed my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine. "But I might just let you think you’re in charge for a little while longer."
His words only fueled my determination. I ground my hips down onto him, my movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. I wanted to prove him wrong, to show him that I could dominate, that I could make him submit to my will. But with every thrust, with every lift and fall, I felt the lines blurring. Was I dominating him, or was he allowing me to think I was?
The question didn’t matter in the heat of the moment. All that mattered was the sensation, the raw, unfiltered pleasure that coursed through me. I could feel my orgasm building, a tight coil of tension deep within me, ready to unravel. His movements became more frantic, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he matched my rhythm, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
"Come for me, Little hybrid," he commanded, his voice a rough whisper.
His words were like a trigger, sending me tumbling over the edge. My body shook, my cries echoing in the room as I climaxed, my walls clenching around him. He held me tightly, his thrusts never faltering, his own release building as he continued to move within me.
And then, with a final, powerful thrust, he followed me, his groan muffled against my neck as he spilled himself deep inside me. His body trembled, his arms shaking slightly as he held me up, his breath hot against my skin.
For a moment, we stayed like that, suspended in time, our hearts pounding, our breaths ragged. Slowly, he lowered me, his hands sliding down to my hips as he gently placed me back on the couch. I lay there, my body still buzzing, my legs feeling like jelly, as he stood over me, his chest heaving.
He leaned down, his lips brushing mine in a tender kiss, a stark contrast to the raw, primal intensity of moments before. "You’re mine, Lyra," he murmured, his voice soft but unwavering.
His fingers brushed my hair back, his touch gentle yet firm, as if to reinforce his claim. The city lights glittered outside, a silent witness to our raw, unfiltered connection. In that moment, I understood that forgiveness wasn’t just about letting go of the past,it was about embracing the present, no matter how messy or intense it might be. And with him, I was willing to dive into the mess, to let him unravel me piece by piece, because in his arms, I felt more alive and safe than ever before.