C11 - Soul-ed MATE

“I think a cherry would have been a better analogy, don’t you think?”

Having reached the end of the room, I walk sideways, circling, trying to keep the same distance away. He doesn’t seem perturbed by my retreat. He doesn’t slow at all.

“Wait,” I say because I need to plan for this.

I know he didn’t have to give me last night. That was a reprieve I haven’t earned, a night I already owe. I’m in his debt, but that doesn’t mean I’m able to pay.

“Just wait.”

He laughs. “Almost twenty-four hours and I haven’t touched you.”

“You want to keep me a virgin,” I say desperately, searching for anything to hold him back. I’m almost to the corner of the room now, on the soft rug with deep orange tones where I did yoga earlier.

“I didn’t say I’d fcuk you,” he says, voice dark with promise. “I want to taste you.”

Then it’s too late to run. Too late to beg. He’s standing right in front of me, and my back is to the stairs, wooden step digging into my calf. I can see him, scent him, but even stronger is the otherworldly sense of him, the presence that holds me frozen in front of him, thicker than chains.

“Taste me…where?”

One blunt finger lands on my lips. “I’ll start here.”

Then his lips are on mine, hot and soft and persistent. I’m helpless to his demands, opening to him, a sigh of acceptance drifting from my mouth to his. I know that everything happening here is inevitable, almost fated, but this part doesn’t hurt.

It feels almost like pleasure, his tongue swiping across mine, his teeth grasping my lower lip in carnal warning. His hands cup my face, my neck. My chest.

My nipples

“Here,” he says, his voice rougher.

Oh God, my nipples. I scramble back, but the stairs catch my feet. His hands grasp my shirt and yank, revealing me. My shirt is pushed out of the way. There’s no ceremony to the way he undresses me.

It’s not a striptease, it’s a possession. His palms rests on my chest, feeling my erratic beating heart.

“You are so pretty,” he says, his hand tweaking at the nub and I feel the flush creep over my cheeks. I want to forget standing on that platform, being watched by so many, but I know I never will. It’s etched into my brain—the judgment and the lust, the shame and the control.

“You bid on me.” I know I sound defensive.

“It’s not a complaint,” he murmurs, pressing the bead between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re fcuking glorious.” The unexpected compliment makes me blink. Then his mouth is covering my nipple, soothing away the burn, hot and eternal. He flicks me with his tongue, back and forth, back and forth, and I whimper with shock.

My hand reaches out to grasp anything—and what I find is the carving of flames, of a hand reaching up out of the depths of hell. I’m burning. He marks a path of open-mouthed kisses over my chest, and I feel conquered. As if he’s mapping every part of my body, owning me.

What if he covers every inch?

What part will be left for me? His hot mouth closes around my other nipple, and my eyes fall shut.

“Oh God,” I whisper.

“That’s right,” he murmurs against me, the tease of his lips as he speaks unbearable. “Let yourself feel good.”

There’s a thought in there—something about sacrifice. About pleasure.

Why does he think I wouldn’t let myself feel good?

But then arousal arcs from nipples to my cock, and I forget about anything but his body over mine, his rough words promising so much more.

“Elbows on the steps,” he says.

I can obey him without thinking. There’s relief and shame, equal parts. This position makes my chest puff out. I’m vulnerable like this, made into a living statue for him to touch and lick and suck. For him to bite, clasping my nipple between his teeth with a threatening growl.

“No,” I moan. “Please.”

His demonic laugh floats around me, as wild and effervescent as the limnio from last night. I’m drunk on whatever he’s doing to me, held captive by his desire. Then his hand cups between my legs.

He squeezes. “And here.”

I shake my head, because that’s different. Kissing my mouth, my neck, my nipples. Those are one thing. What he’s demanding is too intimate, and I fight him. He pulls at my jeans, and I twist away. His legs settle around me, locking my body against the stairs. My hands clench the front of my jeans.

“No, no. Not there.”

“Elbows,” he says. “Steps.”

I cover myself for two breathless moments, shivering in doubt. Except I’m trapped against carved mahogany and muscled flesh. What choice do I have? I move my elbows back to the step behind me, pushing my chest into his face. My cheeks flush in humiliation.

“Yes, sir,” he says, his voice gentle.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper.

His hands are clinical as they unbutton my jeans and pull down the zipper. He tugs off the jeans with a few rough pulls and tosses them aside. The panties go next. Maybe this part doesn’t matter. He’s seen it all before, and it’s dark in the room.

So, dark with only the embers to wink at me from the fireplace. Except I can’t stop shaking, made so vulnerable by this position, by his command. Made naked by his very will. This is what it means to be owned by someone.

He pushes my legs apart. Not only a little, for him to touch me, for him to see. He pushes until the outsides of my legs touch the lip of the step. I’m completely exposed to him, spread open for him.

His thumb bluntly nudge the slit—the one worth paying a million dollars for. No one’s ever seen me like this. Not a man. Not myself. He looks at my peeking hole like a tiger looking at its prey—hungry and wild.

His scent gives nothing.

I don’t even know if he is aroused or angry or excited. I am scared and excited altogether. Nothing ever got inside my hole. Not any cock. Not fingers. Not even a toy. He doesn’t linger there but moves higher.

“Did you touch yourself?” he mutters.

I turn my face, looking at the black flames. “Yes.”

“Like this?” he asks, pressing the slit on my cock with his thumb.

He pinches the skin above my dick and then pushing it back to peek the crown of my cock, making me hiss with pain or pleasure I don’t know. The same way he touched my nipple. It feels too rough at first, almost painful, until the heat turns to pleasure. It’s hard to talk when he’s doing that.

“Not like—more.”

He draws a circle around my cock, and I buck into his hand.

“Yoongi,” I whisper.

“Right here,” he says, voice as dark as the room. “I’m going to taste you right here, feeling your hole against my tongue, fcuking you with my mouth until you cry. Do you want that, bluebell?”

I know the right answer, not only because he wants me to say it. Because I want him to do those things.

I want to live.

“Yes, sir.”

He bends his head. The first touch of his lips at the slit makes me jump. Only his large hands holding my hips keep me steady as he presses his mouth around my cock like he is sucking a lollipop. His fingers found purchase in my hole, while his tongue laps on my cock, few large licks over it that have my toes curling against the wood.

“You don’t taste sweet,” he says, pausing. “You taste like I’m fcuking dying and you’re the only water around. You taste like goddamn air.”

He opens his mouth, wide enough to engulf my whole dick in one go pressing his lips tight at the base, and I can’t help the shrill scream that escapes me.

God, what is he doing to me? I thought he might want me tonight—maybe we’d have dinner, some semblance of a date. Maybe he would come to my bedroom.

I never expected to be caught in the library, to be spread open on the steps of a hand-carved staircase. Every stroke of his mouth, the slurping of his tongue brings me higher, winds me tighter, the index digging in my hole forgotten until he curves it, until I’m rocking imperceptibly into his mouth.

Little grunts escape me, matching the animalistic need in the air. I’m pushing against some cliff, held back by a barrier I don’t understand, I can’t name. I had an orgasm before, by my own hand, but this feels entirely different—a strange and uncontrollable beast.

I get close with a sharp whimper, and he slows his tongue, sliding down to my the base and back up again. My hand grasps his hair, pulling him where I need him. “Please.”

“Do I need to tie you down?” he says, his voice thick. “I’d love to do that, Virgin lily. Remember what I said about fighting me.”

“You’d enjoy it too much,” I whisper, moving my elbows back to the stairs.

“Mhmm, and for that you’ll have to wait. You’ll have to wait until I’m done.”

I groan because I’m right there, standing on the precipice, something sharp pressed into the breach. All I need is a few more glorious touches of his tongue.

I’ll burst. I know I will. He pushes up from his kneeling position and pulls off his clothes. He’s just as efficient, as unceremonial, as he was for mine. They’re only fabric in the way of what he wants, shed quickly.

Then he’s standing there like some magnificent statue, like Hades, completely unselfconscious. Unlike Hades, though, his private part juts out from his body. He puts his fist around it.

“Have you ever sucked a cock?”

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Ever touched someone else’s?”

I know he wants to ask about Namjoon. But I won’t give him the anger right now.

“No.”

With his other hand, he grasps my hair and tilts my face up. “Have you touched him, Virgin lily?”

My eyes grow wide as I fight his hold on me. He tightens his fist in my hair until I squeak. “No, sir. I haven’t.”

“You’re going to taste mine tonight, understand?”

One of his knees drops to the stairs near my elbow. He leans close, the tip of his cock an inch away from my lips. He pauses there, waiting. For what? I realize he wants me to meet him that final inch.

He wants me to take control in this way—and I do, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to the slick tip of his cock.

I hear his breath catch. “More, omega.”

My tongue swipes the tip, the same way I felt his mouth on mine. He lets out a rough groan. “You’re going to kill me.”

There’s wetness inside my mouth that came from him. It’s thick and salty.

“Y-you taste like the sea.”

“Fcuk,” he mutters, grasping my hair. This time he doesn’t wait for me to meet him. Instead, he holds me steady as his hips thrusts forward, pressing his cock into my mouth. He pushes past my lips, past the tip of my tongue, until my mouth feels unbearably full of him.

“You okay?” he says on a rough breath.

I look up at him and nod, my mouth still full. Then he pushes forward, more than I thought was possible. The blunt end of his cock fills my throat, and my eyes water.

Did I taste the same in his mouth like he is in mine. My body fights him, trying to push him out of where he doesn’t belong. He pulls back all on his own before thrusting in again. His mouth on me felt invasive, but it’s nothing like this.

I’m pinned to the stairs by the thick length of him, made to taste him, breathe him. As he pulls back, the ridge of him swipes over my tongue, and a small spurt lands in my mouth.

I roll it around my tongue like it’s fine wine, as if I can sense what he’s made of by the flavor of his sex. It’s as complex as he is, as impenetrable and sharp. He shoves back inside before I can fully drink it down, and I swallow almost around him.

He gives a hard sound of pleasure. “I want to be all the way inside,” he mutters, sounding conflicted.

He isn’t all the way inside?

God, he would spear me to my core. I make a mumbling sound of panic, trying to shake my head with his hard length holding me still.

His laugh is unsteady. “I’ll go easy on you.”

If this is easy, I can’t imagine what hard would be. His hips find a pattern, the same one he teased me with his mouth. He pushes inside me, deep enough to feel my throat, before pulling out again.

I get lost in the steadiness of it, like a ship being moved by the waves. There’s no controlling it, no fighting. The only thing left to do is ride them. I let myself be tossed forward and back, pushed and pulled.

Used.

He moves faster, his breath coming ragged. The sound of his need does something inside me, and I feel myself harden. It’s strange that he can still touch me by fcuking my mouth.

His roar begins low, almost a rumble. It ends with a sound of ferocity that reverberates through the library. I’m half-drunk on him, my mouth held open for his invasion.

I wait for something that must come next—more of that salty flavor.

Instead he pulls back. I only have a moment to register the emptiness of my mouth, the ache in my jaw, before I feel the hot spray on my chest. He paints my chest, my nipple. One high arc crosses my neck.

Blunt fingers push the cum into my skin, rubbing it around.

I feel impossibly marked.

His.

My skin tightens as he moves his seed over it.

His, his, his.

His other hand reaches down to my ramrod hardon, pinching hard. Fire overtakes me, flames licking my skin. I buck against his hand, making incoherent sounds, pleading.

It’s too much, too hard.

Too good.

He doesn’t show any mercy, stroking my cock with unceremonious speed, with an intensity that wrings me out.

My orgasm twists and twists, pulling tighter, until my balls ache and my mouth is open in a silent scream.

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