35. MADDY

35

MADDY

I am upset about what could've happened to Little tonight.

Little is upset Raven didn't stay for dinner, and I can't tell him why.

Raven is probably not upset about anything at all. These are our dynamics lately.

When Kai and Callie call and say that they are watching a Marvel movie, Little decides he wants to spend a night with them. So, Kai comes to pick him up. Kai carries a gun now—this is becoming the new normal.

When they are gone, I text Raven.

Me: Sonny is spending a night at K&C. In case you don't have plans for later…

It feels like we go through the bad times better when we fuck it out. And there's plenty of that going on in the last weeks. But this is only the second time I'm inviting him myself.

At eleven at night, the motion sensors outside my house beep with a notification.

My heartbeat spikes, always does—this could be an intruder.

But I pull up the porch camera and see Raven's dark silhouette at my door right before he knocks.

He is taking our arrangement as some sort of experiment. With my body—he is meticulous about everything he does to me. With my mind—he calls me often, and we talk, and I long stopped teasing him about the reason for his calls because I long to hear his voice every night. I still try to get more info about him, and he slowly starts cracking, spilling little pieces about his past here and there.

I tell myself this is only about sex. But I'm lying and have to admit that in all my relationships in the past, however short, and the short flings, however exciting, none gave the range and depth of sensations Raven does. Go figure.

He is delicate and tender, in contrast with his sharp looks. When it comes to sex, Raven is a different person. I thought he would assert his ownership every time. Instead, he's trying to wind me up to the point that I'm so deep in want that I lose all reservations and go along with everything he does to me.

Today, my body is still slightly sore from his last night's invasion.

Last night, he used his fingers to spread me open and peppered little kisses up and down my thighs until I contorted under his touch and finally asked him for more. He chuckled in satisfaction like he always does. He likes playing with me. He made me come twice in a row with his fingers and tongue. Then he cleaned me up with his tongue, taking his time, so primal, like an animal, that I blushed head to toe as I watched while he only smirked when he got done, sat back on his heels, and stroked my wide-spread legs as he studied my nakedness. "You are such a delight, Maddy."

But other times he is quiet, fucking me slowly, touching me as he does, or pausing altogether and occasionally nudging his hips as he whispers sweet filth in my ear. He often stops in the middle of it and locks eyes with me. I feel his thighs against mine, him lodged inside me. The stillness is more intimate than movement. But then he starts moving… It's so physical. But his gaze screws with me mentally.

And he never takes his clothes off, not fully. I've long stopped asking for it.

Tonight, Raven is quiet, his stark features somehow even sharper as he tongues his cheek while making us drinks. I know all his moods by now. We make small talk, though he won't talk about what happened at the port—the usual diplomacy—until he sets his empty drink down and says, "I want you on your bed, Maddy baby."

Raven notices everything—my body language and my gestures, when my eyes start gliding over his body or his hands or drop to his lips. When I shift impatiently, wanting to get naked. And he knows when to gently order me around at the precise time when my body starts showing my craving for him.

Tonight, he orders me on my hands and knees on the bed.

It's not the first time.

He stands behind me and studies me for a while and makes me so aroused that I feel myself swell with need.

Tonight, I'm still in my dress when he lifts my skirt and slowly pulls my panties down my thighs.

"Wider," he orders softly.

I know he is taking his time to enjoy the view. Then his palm glides over one side of my butt, then another, in the slowest caresses, pushing the hem of my dress up and above my waist. His palm slides to my inner thighs and pushes one of them.

"Wider," he orders again.

Shame and desire twist inside me with such force that I think my entire body blushes. My center throbs with need, the proof drenching my junction.

His fingers skim along my center just barely, then spread the moisture up between my butt cheeks, rubbing the sensitive spot between them.

He doesn't say much when he plays with me. Often doesn't let me look.

"Touch yourself," he instructs in that low, husky voice that drives me wild.

I drop to my elbows and slide one hand between my legs. I can't see him, but I know he watches as I start rubbing my clit. His hand joins in, brushes over my own fingers, and spreads my lips, sending a jolt of need through me.

"Slow down," he orders when he sees me frantically rubbing myself.

I'm so close. I whimper in need when he coats his fingers in my slick, then drags them slowly between my butt cheeks again. Shivers run through me. I start rubbing myself feverishly, squirming with the need to come.

When I'm almost there, he suddenly orders, "Stop."

And he repeats the torture several times, edging me, until I'm frustrated and give up.

"This was a sex deal," I pant as I sit back on my haunches, pull at my dress, and peel it off me. "Not a torture deal, Rave."

He's amused, watching me when I push him, still fully clothed, onto the bed.

He rarely takes his shirt off. Often, I sneak my hands under it, letting my palms feel his every cut and scar, trying to map it out. He doesn't want skin contact? Fine. I'll fuck him through his jeans. I'll fuck his hand. I'll fuck myself as long as he lets me finish.

But the little mocking glint in his eyes riles me up as I straddle him.

He cushions his head with his hands locked behind his head and watches, amused, as I hurriedly unzip him and pull his jeans down his hips. His gorgeous steel eyes narrow just slightly when I take him in my mouth.

His patience is astounding. I'll give him that. I pull away from him and let my hand take over, watching his gaze leisurely study my nakedness. But I don't work him methodically. Instead, I try to figure out which little movements get him off the most. When I play with his tip, or kiss his thighs, or—yes, that one—when I cup his balls and tug them just lightly. His jaw tightens. His chest stills. His eyes snap at me, and I repeat it and notice his hips nudge just a little upward, pushing his erection into my hand.

I love his taste, the smoothness of his skin against my lips and tongue. I suck him a little and love when he brings his hand down and cups my chin as I lick him. I love when he strokes my hair as I take him in my mouth. Love when he tells me to stop when I start sucking faster, and he brings his fingers to my lower lip and strokes it as I let my tongue play with his head.

I do it enough times until his lips part involuntarily from pleasure.

And then I stop.

And then I take him in my mouth again, working him slowly, licking him, letting my tongue play with that slit. I tease him just like he teases me.

Until he loses patience.

"My turn," he says and fucks me multiple times in a row.