Page 35 of Finding Her Heart
"Not thirsty." The offer irritated because it was the wrong one. She yearned for an undefined taste and nutrient that she didn't know how to get. Turning her face into Doku-ni's arm, she inhaled his musk. This smell—taste in a bottle. She hummed, nuzzling in, rubbing her lips back and forth against the texture of his flesh. Smooth everywhere, even over the perfect slices of scars, she needed to kiss and lick. He smelled edible in a way a man shouldn't smell. She wanted to bite him. She tried to turn around, get more of him.
His second grunt, louder, held warning in it reinforced by his tightening arm.
"Why are you always shoving water in my face?" Pouty that he wouldn't do a single damn thing that she wanted, Annabell accepted the offer. Sloppily drinking the stuff, she let it spill down her chin. It did feel good on her skin, at least.
He put a small piece of Orki cake in her mouth before she could pin her lips shut. "No. That's the wrong stuff. Don't you have anything that smells like you?" Doku-ni activated her appetite. A salty, woodsy, warm musk and spice. Mouthwatering. Annabell craved every origin point of the delicious smell. Taste it, lick it up. She knew the drink would be delicious.
But he would not give it to her. His big hand fisted the mess of her hair, holding her up, demanding her attention. The sting of the pull and his control started a rippling wave down her spine into her core. A wordless signal her body understood. Annabell strained to catch up with the message.
"What do you want from me? What do I need to do?" If she did what he wanted, maybe he would do what she wanted. Focusing, she bent her gaze on the fierce intensity of his expression. Like the night before, when he'd put himself right between her legs to drive her insane, his intense devotion captured her.
He held up three nut-sized bright orange little balls in his fingers. Food? Slipping it into his mouth, Doku-ni bit it in half, showing her a juicy, fragrant fruit. Annabell didn't want it. Should not want it. But now, the citrus-smelling food was suddenly appealing. It had been in his mouth.
Her lips parted in acceptance.
The critical voice in her head murmured with discontent. She ignored it, sucking at the fruit to find Doko-ni's flavor. Bite by bite, she ate everything he gave her, asking for more. There was no part of this male she could reject. Not any bit of his smell or essence. She wanted him on her, inside her, around her, taking her, using her, marking her. Scooting back against him, tipping her head to the side in acquiescence, she let him feed her, mesmerized as each piece went from his mouth to hers.
With her legs spread wide over his, her hips moved involuntarily, grinding down, seeking pressure against her aching center. This was the cure for her sickness, for the relentless passion and arousal. She wanted to fit her feminine to his masculine. Pressure built with every moment he kept her from what she wanted.
Having been a wife, growing up on a farm, and with six brothers, she understood the male form. That long, thick bar of flesh underneath her bottom was his cock. Proportionate to his size, he must be as big as the bull that mounted her heifer. Hot and smooth, it teased her puffy female delta. The sickness caused swelling; the area felt oversensitive, pink, and bee-stung. A flash of memory hit her hard. The glimpse she had caught of her sister-in-marriage the night before, Lurann on hands and knees being taken from behind with a heavy, oversized male organ.
Wanting his cock too much to be afraid of it, she spread her thighs wider, pressed down deeper, searching for the right position. He fed her; she ate, her hips circled and danced. Slick with their essence, his member slipped between the folds of her vulva, a delicate tease of skin on skin, hitting her pleasure receptors just right before sliding away. Bracing her hands on his thighs, Annabell chased that feeling, desperate to find it again. Her naked chest bobbed, heavy, her nipples throbbing with her heartbeat.
She forgot herself completely. Forgot worries and woe. A woman of need, in need, her greed recognizing no boundaries. Annabell was famine, and Doku-ni was her feast. Moaning, she hunted his cock, rolling her hips. Wet dripped from her over his lap. There was no time to be ashamed of it, or confused by the amount of it.
Finally, his hands enclosed her waist. She loved that. The gesture filled her with emotion—the of meaning that her heart instantly recognized. Guiding her down, he arched up, his cock again finding that perfect position. Annabell rocked back and forth on it, leaning forward more, moving her hands to his knees, seeking the pressure on the peak of nerves at the top of her slit. The feeling of his manhood against her drenched womanhood quivered through her body with redolent, gorgeous pleasure. Back and forth she moved, panting.
His hands curved down her back, over her spine to where she rubbed him. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him reach to the side, a blur of motion, a flash of orange, scooping up more of the hard, little citrus fruits. Fingers at her folds, finding her center, one by one he put them inside of her.
The action robbed her of words.
But he wouldn't let her hide. Wouldn't let her escape the knowledge of what he intended to do. He held one up, then made her count each one, saying the number aloud before they disappeared. At first, she only felt the way his fingers pressed against her flesh, the way he teased the opening to her womb. The idea of it, the unconventional, strange, dirty of it, made her sob in conflicted agony. Desiring everything he did, but not knowing why, unable to ask him to stop.
If he stopped, she'd die.
One by one, he put each of the fruits inside of her. "Twenty-two." She said the number, crying. Shoving them deep with his fingers, the rolling, tumbling things filled up her empty. It was so wrong, yet she lacked all the reasons to protest. The sensation was strange, but not unpleasant.
Twenty-two of them. Inside. Oh, moons. Twenty-two.
If she held still, she felt nothing. But it was impossible to hold still. Every twitch from her thighs, her abdominals, or the muscles inside made twenty-two little orange fruits move.
It was profane. Obscene.
But she quivered all over, shaking, hanging on the edge of sanity.
Finished stuffing her, the bowl empty, Doku-ni stroked the engorged petals of flesh between her legs. With the lightest touches, he pet her wet, drenched vulva. Sliding fingers over her peak, around, on the sides, he gave her no satisfaction. It all felt good, but it wasn’t where or what she needed.
Why was he doing this? She needed something different. Bigger and thicker, this was not the masculine flesh she craved. This was pleasurable, decadent agony.
Unable to form words, Annabell moaned and whimpered. She couldn’t hold still, couldn’t control her muscles, the jerking of her hips or inner clench of her core.
As if finished assessing how wet and swollen he had made her, Doku-ni thrust two fingers in her tight center again. He went slow, rubbing at the sides. She felt everything. The deliberate in and out movement and slow roll of the hard, round fruits pressing against the walls of her vagina.
Rolling against each other, massaging the hidden tissue of her channel while she reflexively squeezed back, the fruit discovered new sensitive places. They touched—something.
He found a place inside of her, near her bladder, an undiscovered raised button where every nudge went straight to overwhelming and robbed her of breath.
In and out.
