The Billionaire’s Bride: Our Vows Do Not Matter

Cathleen’s tongue moved with skilled precision, tracing the throbbing vein beneath his tight skin. Every time she sucked on it, he let out a deep guttural groan, his hips a machine of raw, carnal rhythm. he was using her as an instrument to fulfill his primal needs. She was merely an object to him, a tool for his darkest cravings, and yet she gloried in it.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his voice a low animal growl. His body tensed, every muscle coiled tight, ready to unleash the storm brewing deep within his loins. Her mouth-so damn perfect-was both his heaven and hell. He hovered, teetering on the brink of oblivion, debating whether to cum on her face or her throat.

Swallow it, he decided.

He drove into her, relentless, his grip on her hair unyielding. Small thrusts turned her throat into his personal sanctum, his temple of release. And then the curse of his climax broke free-a whisper against the roar of his pleasure. Hot jets filled her, branding her insides, and though she gagged, she took every drop like the good girl she was.

“Christ, Cat…” His breath hitched as he finally eased back, his cock softening but still dripping the last vestiges of his ecstasy. His eyes locked on her as he watched her tremble and watched her gulp down life-giving air like a drowning woman resurfaced. She was a mess, his mess, beautiful in her disheveled state. A beautiful mess.

Without thought, he yanked her up, crashing his lips onto hers in a bruising kiss that spoke volumes of possession. Releasing her just as abruptly, he ran his fingers through her tousled locks, a silent thank you for the gift of her submission. She didn’t resist; she didn’t pull away. She craved this, needed this, maybe even more than he did.

“Do you still want to cum, Cat?” His voice was husky, still laced with the remnants of their shared lust. The promise of her own release dangled before them, an unspoken vow between predator and prey.

Her nod was eager, desperate. Knees splayed wide, she sat back, her gaze locking onto his with something akin to gratitude-or was it hunger? Yes, hunger. Her body was a live wire, charged and waiting for the spark only he could provide.

“Holy fucking beautiful mess,” he murmured, approval coloring his tone. He was pleased with what she did. She sucked him as though he were her favorite lollipop. She’d taken everything he’d thrown at her, and now it was his turn to give.

“Use words, don’t fucking give me a nod,” he coaxed, voice laced with a hint of command that brooked no argument yet promised rewards.

Cathleen’s glare bore into him, a wordless challenge, but then her tongue darted out, wetting lips bruised from sucking his cock earlier. “Please,” she rasped, the single word a raw scrape against her throat. “Fuck, I’m so horny, make me cum.”

Despite his spent state, his cock stirred at her plea; the gravel in her tone sang to him, a siren’s call of mutual need. He nodded, permission granted. “Alright. Come up here.”

She rose, a vision of unsteady determination. Hands bound metaphorically by desire, not rope, she awkwardly climbed onto his lap. His fingertips skirted the hem of her dress, delving beneath the silk barrier to the heat that awaited him. Her pussy was drenched, a testament to her wantonness. The moment his fingers slid inside her, she moaned-a raw sound of pure pleasure.

He watched her intently as she writhed in his lap. “You knew what you wanted when you wanted this demon in me, Cat.” His voice was a low drawl, teasing her with the truth. “You fucking enjoy being punished, don’t you?”

The flush on her face deepened, and she bucked against him, biting her lip to contain the moans spilling freely now. Her hair, once neatly ponytailed, was a wild tangle framing her lust-flushed cheeks. She didn’t care; her focus narrowed to the impending climax, the promise of release.

Every session in their private dungeon had stoked the fire between them, and now he fanned the flames. His fingers pumped rhythmically within her, two joined by a third, stretching and filling.

Cathleen gasped his name, an invocation, a benediction. It fueled his own arousal anew. His free hand sought her breast, squeezing and pinching a nipple through the fabric of her dress until she keened for him.

Her breaths were ragged, her chest heaving against the relentless assault of his hand. The edge was near, her body tensing, ready to tip over into the abyss of ecstasy they both craved.

Anticipation prickled at his skin, a raw hunger clawing from within. Xavier’s gaze was fixed on her, the way she writhed atop him-a vision of primal desire. He ached to plunge into her, to claim that needy heat with his cock rather than his fingers.

“Fuck,” Cathleen gasped, her voice breaking. “I’m so… I’m going…” Her words shattered into a crescendo of cries as her body convulsed around his hand. She clamped down on him, tight, spasming, her inner walls pulsating in a rhythm that beckoned release from his own flesh.

“Let it go, Cat,” he coaxed, voice barely above a growl.

Her eyes squeezed shut as he surrendered to the wave, her climax washing over her in relentless tides. Her face, always so composed and stern, now slackened into pure, unguarded bliss. Xavier drank in the sight, memorizing this rare display of vulnerability.

He stroked her through the quake of her orgasm, a steady presence amidst her chaos. When the tremors subsided, he withdrew his slick fingers, contemplating the mess. The thought of her lips cleaning him flashed through his mind, but her chest heaved too wildly for such tasks.

He reached for the table and drew a tissue and then ripped his hands as he watched her intensely. He was happy with what he was seeing. A beautiful sated mess. Normally, Cathleen would’ve scrambled away, reclaiming her composure like armor. But she didn’t. Instead, she slumped against him, her body pressed close, her heart a frantic drumbeat against his chest.Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

“Stay,” he whispered, an unspoken command mingling with the plea. His arms enveloped her, claiming, comforting-a paradoxical embrace from the man who lived to dominate. In the aftermath, they remained intertwined.