Page 9 of Demon's Cruel Desire
I feel myself starting to unravel. The pressure mounts within me, each roll of his hips bringing me closer to the brink. His rhythm is unyielding, almost beastly, and yet in an odd way, it feels divine. My nails sink into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto as he drives me closer to the edge.
Every nerve in my body is screaming for release. Dagon’s hands explore every inch of my body with a possessive ownership that leaves me breathless with anticipation. His hands roam over my breasts and down to my waist before returning to my hips, holding me firmly in place as he continues his relentless assault on my senses.
“Come for me,” he growls, his voice so low I can barely hear him over the fire roaring in my ears. The command sends shivers down my spine that ignite a spark deep within me.
With a final punishing drive of his hips, Dagon buries himself deep within me and holds still, waiting for my response. The world around me slows as a powerful wave crashes over me.
I let out a strangled cry as an intense shower of pleasure washes over me. My walls clamp down on him in rhythm with the pulsating waves of ecstasy that consume every fiber of my being.
The world fades away and all I know is the sensation of Dagon deep within me, his possession as intoxicating as it is absolute. His low growl rumbles in his chest as he revels in my release, his hips moving against mine in a way that prolongs the pulsing waves of pleasure coursing through me. The sensation is utterly overwhelming, leaving me gasping for breath.
He gives me barely any time to recover before he’s moving again, his pace now slow and measured, drawing out my pleasure with every stroke. I can feel every inch of him as he moves within me, the sensation both exquisite and maddening.
From close by, a whisper drifts through the sound of our mingling pants. The voice is pure Dagon - commanding and demanding but with an underlying note of anticipation that belies his desire for my submission. He needs this as much as I do.
I obey his command blindly, my body responding instinctively to the rhythm he sets. His fingers dig into my hips again, guiding my movements to match his own. Each drive connects with a sweet spot inside me that has me groaning uncontrollably.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus and all I can see is Dagon above me. His face is drawn tight in concentration and there’s a feral hunger in his eyes that sends a jolt of pure lust coursing through me.
His movements grow more forceful as his climax nears, each one sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through my oversensitive body until I’m teetering on the edge once more.
Just when I think I can’t hold on any longer, Dagon’s rhythm falters. His grip on my hips tightens painfully as he plunges himself deeply within me, his body going rigid as he reaches his climax. A guttural growl echoes through the chamber as he spills himself inside me.
There's silence in the dim room save for our ragged breaths gradually slowing down to match each other's pace. My cheek rests against the solid plane of his chest, listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart reverberating through me. It's an oddly comforting sound amidst all that we've just experienced.
His fingers trace lazy circles on my bare skin as we lie entwined in each other's arms. The intimacy is jarring after such fierce passion but not unwelcome. His deep baritone breaks the silence by murmuring words into my hair that are meant just for me.
9
CALLISTA
Tagar is still lingering around the mansion, provoking Dagon. His presence makes me uneasy. Despite this, I'm finding my attention drawn more and more to Dagon as the days pass. After the other night, I'm starting to see beyond the outbursts of anger. I've never been scared of him, but there was a chaotic element to the way the anger simmered readily beneath the surface.
My hand absently comes to my neck, thinking about the physicality of his anger. I've been thrown up against the wall with his hand around my throat more times than I can count in my short time being taken by him. I should probably fear him, fear the tightly wound sense of control knowing it will inevitably snap. His rages haven't changed in intensity, and while I'm strangely more compassionate, I still don't shy away from his verbal abuse, giving it right back to him as good as I take it.
"You just going to stand there and glare?" I taunt him as he towers over me after yet another outburst, his eyes burning with a storm.
"I could ask you the same fucking thing," he snaps back, his tone laced with irritation and something akin to admiration.
I know that my defiance, my readiness to stand toe-to-toe with him, acts as a necessary release for Dagon. This isn’t just about proving my strength. It’s about providing him an outlet that I secretly know he craves.
Admittedly, it’s fucking thrilling, making my heart race and my skin tingle with adrenaline. In these moments, where I match Dagon's intensity, I discover a fierce part of myself that thrives in toxicity. Facing Dagon’s fury, I not only confront his darkness but also embrace my own.
"Does this make you feel alive?" I challenge him, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.
"It's what keeps me fucking sane," he admits, his voice a low growl. The admission, raw and honest, cements the brutal truth of our connection. He glares as he stalks away, leaving me reeling from the conflict.
But everything considered, it's the late nights that reveal the most to me. When sleep eludes us, we find ourselves in the kitchen, our battle wounds laid bare in the flickering candlelight. At first, our encounters are tense and silent, neither of us willing to speak or make the first move towards a semblance of camaraderie.
The stillness hangs heavy, filled with the echoes of our earlier clashes. The only sounds are the soft crackles from the candle and the occasional shift of our feet on the cold tile floor. We're like two generals, momentarily off the battlefield, unsure of how to interact without the familiar backdrop of war.
One day, the silence begins to thaw as we start to seek each other out. It starts with a shared glance, a mutual sigh, and an involuntary shift toward each other. There's a tacit acknowledgment in these small gestures, a recognition of the exhaustion and raw emotion that our fiery exchanges often mask.
The first words are forced, each syllable heavy with the effort of civility. “Still standing, then?” I ask, my voice low, the words slicing through the quiet.
“Seems so,” Dagon replies curtly, his eyes not quite meeting mine. “Not for lack of trying, on either side.”
The tension lingers, but slowly, the conversation begins to flow—still measured, still cautious, but gaining a reluctant momentum. We dance around deeper topics, instead discussing the mundane, the safe. And yet, each exchange is laced with an undercurrent of something more, a hesitant probing of boundaries and a testing of waters.