Forbidden Bite in Secret
Wilde’s teeth sank into the curve of Rebekah’s shoulder, the pressure breaking skin just enough to draw a hot line of pain that locked her spine rigid. His hips snapped forward a half-second later, burying his cock to the hilt inside her.
Rebekah’s breath punched out against the wall in front of her. This was the part she never let herself think about beforehand, the part that made her hate him a little and want him more for it — that he always drew blood first, like he needed proof she was still willing to bleed for this. She arched her upper back away from the wall, chasing the small space it gave her, and dug her fingers into the hard jut of his hips, anchoring herself to the only solid thing in the narrow storage room. Every inch of his pelvis ground flush against her ass, forcing her thighs wider around his stance.
Wilde felt the exact give of her cunt around the base of his shaft, the way her inner walls fluttered once then clamped when he held the bite a beat longer than he needed to. He knew she counted those extra seconds. He did it anyway, every time, some ugly proprietary instinct he’d stopped examining months ago — she was his in this room whether either of them said the word aloud or not, and the bite was the only place he was allowed to say it. He released the skin only to crush his mouth over hers from the side, tongue driving past her teeth, sealing every airway her lungs might use.
His free hand slid up her ribcage, palm flat, counting the seconds her lungs stayed empty.
Rebekah’s vision pulsed black at the edges. She tried to tilt her head for half a breath but his jaw tightened, locking her mouth wider, his tongue pressing down on hers until saliva slicked her chin. She hated that her body already knew this — that some reflex older than thought had her going still under his mouth before he’d even finished sealing it over hers, the way you’d flinch from a hot stove after only one burn. Nobody had trained her to anticipate her own suffocation. She’d just learned it, the way you learn anything that happens to you enough times. The angle of his cock inside her stayed fixed; he rocked his pelvis in short, grinding circles that dragged the head against the front wall of her cunt without ever pulling out far enough to let air or sound escape.
Wilde felt her diaphragm spasm under his palm. He counted the tremor in her thighs, the involuntary twitch of her calves against his shins, and some small ungenerous part of him was satisfied by it — evidence that he could still take her apart with nothing but his own weight and the seal of his mouth over hers, that whatever else this was, she hadn’t gotten used to him. When her knees started to buckle he shifted his stance, sliding one boot between her feet to keep her upright and open. The new leverage let him drive upward at a steeper angle, each small thrust compressing her lungs further against the drywall.
Rebekah’s hands left his hips and slapped flat to the wall, fingers spread for purchase. Her pulse hammered in her ears. His mouth never eased; he swallowed every half-formed sound she made, the vibration traveling straight down his throat. He moved his hand down to grip her hip, thumb pressing into the bruise already forming from earlier, using the pressure point to keep her pelvis exactly where he wanted it.
The rhythm stayed relentless and contained. His cock slid only an inch or two on each stroke now, enough to maintain friction against the swollen tissue inside her but never enough to create the wet slap of skin that might carry beyond the door. Her cunt fluttered harder around him, the muscles starting to roll in the pattern he knew by heart — knew better than he knew her handwriting, her coffee order, anything a person was supposed to know about someone they were sleeping with. He pressed his chest tighter to her back, forcing her spine into a deeper arch that narrowed her airway even more.
Rebekah’s lungs burned. Her vision tunneled to the grain of the wall under her palms. She felt the first hard pulse of her orgasm building at the base of her spine and locked every muscle in response, exactly as the silent rule demanded — the same rule that governed every single time they did this, the rule neither of them had ever spoken because speaking it would have meant admitting there was a rule, that this was a thing with a shape and a history instead of an accident that kept happening. No bucking, no grinding, no arching back into him. Her thighs shook with the effort of staying open and still while the climax ripped through her in tight, internal spasms that clamped his cock in rhythmic waves.
Wilde held her through it, pelvis fixed, mouth still sealed over hers, his other hand gripping her hip so she could not move even a millimeter. He felt every contraction travel up his shaft and into his own tightening balls, and for a moment the discipline of it — the stillness, the silence, the sheer control required to hold two bodies at the edge of release without a single sound — felt like the only honest thing between them. The moment her cunt stopped pulsing he eased the pressure on her mouth just enough for a thin stream of air to pass.
Then footsteps scuffed outside the door, and he sealed it again.
Both bodies froze. Rebekah’s heart slammed against her ribs; she could feel Wilde’s matching it through the muscle of his chest. His cock remained buried, still hard, the head pressed against her cervix. Neither of them breathed. The footsteps paused. A floorboard creaked. His mouth stayed locked over hers, his free hand sliding up to cover the frantic pulse at her throat, counting the seconds the danger lasted.
Rebekah’s eyes stayed wide and fixed on the seam of the door. Her muscles fired the impulse to flinch and she overrode it, and in the space of that override something in her chest turned over sick and cold — the exact stillness that had just wrung an orgasm out of her, the discipline she’d surrendered to like a gift, was now the only thing standing between them and a discovery that would end everything. The same obedience. Two completely different kinds of fear. She didn’t know which one frightened her more, that they were the same muscle, or that she couldn’t tell anymore where one stopped and the other started.
Wilde’s breath moved in the smallest increments against her ear, controlled, waiting, his mind running the same math it always ran in these seconds — who was on shift, who had a reason to be in this hallway, how many words it would take to end both their careers if that door opened. He’d built a hundred explanations for a hundred scenarios and none of them survived contact with the image of her pinned to this wall, skirt shoved to her waist, her body still fitted around his. There was no explaining this. There had never been an explanation. That was the part he’d stopped letting himself think about.
The footsteps resumed and faded down the hall.
Wilde’s mouth eased from hers first, then his hand from her throat. He withdrew in one slow, deliberate pull, the wet drag of her body around him the only sound in the room. Rebekah stayed pressed to the wall, legs still spread, chest heaving in silent, shallow breaths, her pulse refusing to slow even with the hallway empty again. Wilde’s fingers traced the bite mark on her shoulder once, checking the depth, gauging whether it would need covering later.
He said nothing. She didn’t expect him to. His hand dropped away, and neither of them moved to fix their clothing yet, both still listening for the sound that hadn’t come back.