CHAPTER 184: NEXT MORNING

Sunlight didn’t just pour through the half-open curtains, it slithered, thick and golden, like warm oil sliding over every inch of the master bedroom.

It caught on the dust motes drifting lazy in the air, turned the tangled white sheets into rivers of light and shadow, and painted Devon’s bare skin in slow, molten strokes.

The room smelled like a battlefield after the war: sex and sweat and the sharp, sweet bite of Amara’s jasmine perfume now twisted with the deeper, darker musk of bodies pushed past exhaustion.

The king bed groaned under their weight, springs still warm from the night’s violence, headboard loose and scarred from hours of slamming, one leg of the nightstand tipped crooked, lamp shade hanging like a drunk soldier.

A single silk tie—Julian’s, probably—lay knotted on the floor, forgotten. A high heel dangled off the edge of the dresser, strap broken.

The mirror across the room reflected it all: chaos, conquest, them.

Amara woke first, but not sudden. It was slow, like surfacing from deep water.

Her dark hair spilled across the pillow in wild, sweat-damp ropes, strands stuck to her cheek, her neck, her swollen lips.

Those lips—red, bitten, glistening—curved into a smile before her eyes even opened. She was naked, of course.

Had been since the moment the front door slammed behind them, since she’d kicked off her heels in the hallway, since she’d dragged Devon past the framed wedding photos without a glance, since she’d shoved him onto the matrimonial bed and taken what she wanted.

Julian’s defeat still hung in the air like smoke, and she’d inhaled it deep.

She stretched, slow and catlike, breasts lifting, nipples tight and dark in the cool morning air. Her skin glowed—golden, flushed, marked. Faint bruises bloomed on her hips where fingers had gripped too hard. Red lines raked down her inner thighs from teeth.

A bite mark sat proud on her collarbone, already turning purple. She smelled herself on the sheets, on him, on everything. Her pussy ached—sore, swollen, used—but the ache made her smile wider.

Devon lay on his back, one arm cocked behind his head, the other draped heavy across her waist, fingers still curled possessive into the soft curve of her hip. His chest rose slow and steady, muscles carved sharp in the light, every ridge and valley catching gold.

The faint scar on his ribs—a thin, pale lightning bolt—glowed like it remembered the knife. His cock lay thick against his thigh, half-hard even in sleep, the head flushed dark, a single bead of pre-cum already pearling at the slit, catching the light like a jewel.

Amara turned to him, eyes heavy-lidded, smile wicked and slow.

She leaned in, breath warm against his neck, and pressed her lips to his—soft at first, just a brush, then deeper, tongue sliding in lazy, tasting salt and sleep and the faint copper of last night’s bites.

She moaned faint into his mouth, a low, hungry sound that vibrated in her chest.

"Morning, winner," she whispered, voice rough, scraped raw from screaming.

Her hand was already moving, fingers trailing down the hard planes of his abs, nails scraping light, following the deep V that pointed straight to what she craved. "Fuck, you’re still perfect."

Her fingers wrapped around his cock—thick, heavy, velvet over steel. He swelled instantly under her touch, pulsing hot in her palm.

She stroked slow, thumb circling the head, smearing that bead of pre-cum in lazy circles, watching it glisten.

His hips shifted faint, a low rumble in his chest.

She bit her lip, eyes locked on his, voice dripping like honey.

"God, I love this cock. So thick. So hard. I dreamed about it inside me all night. Dreamed about how you ruined me."

Devon’s eyes opened, gray and sharp, a smirk tugging his lips.

He didn’t speak.

Just watched her, hand sliding up her back, fingers tangling slow in her hair.

She pumped him lazy but firm, grip tight, twisting faint at the top. Spit gathered in her mouth just from the feel of him.

She leaned down, let it drip slow from her lips onto his cock, watched it slide down the shaft, slicking him shiny.

Her strokes turned wet, obscene, the sound soft and filthy in the quiet room.

"Look at you," she breathed, voice shaking with want. "Already leaking for me. You want this mouth again, don’t you?"

He groaned low, hips rolling faint into her hand.

Amara shifted down the bed, sheets sliding off her ass like water, knees parting wide as she settled between his thighs.

Her breasts swayed heavy, nipples brushing his skin, sending sparks straight to her clit.

She kissed his stomach first, tongue flicking slow over the ridges, tasting salt and heat and the faint trace of her own dried cum from last night.

Lower.

Lower.

Lips grazing the base of his cock, now fully hard, standing proud, veins thick and pulsing, head flushed dark and slick.

She inhaled deep, moaned loud, filthy, like she was starving.

"Fuck, you smell like sex. Like power. Like mine."

Her tongue came out slow, flat and wet, licking up the underside from balls to tip in one long, greedy stroke.

The taste exploded—salt and musk and him. Devon hissed, fingers tightening in her hair.

She did it again, slower, savoring every inch, every throb, every twitch.

Then she swirled around the head, tongue dancing in tight, wet circles, lapping up pre-cum like it was honey, moaning with every swallow.

"Yes... fuck yes... taste so good. So fucking good. I could live on this."

She took him in, lips stretching wide, mouth hot and wet, sliding down inch by inch till he hit the back of her throat. She held there, throat working, humming deep and dirty so the vibration buzzed through him like current. His hips bucked once, hard. She pulled back slow, sucking hard, cheeks hollow, tongue pressing flat under the shaft, spit slicking her lips, her chin, dripping down in thick strings.

Then down again, deeper, messier, gagging faint but not stopping, eyes watering, mascara smudged black, loving every second.

She popped off with a wet gasp, spit connecting her lips to his cock in shiny threads, and dove lower, tongue tracing his balls, licking slow, sucking one into her mouth, rolling it gentle with her tongue, then the other, popping them free with a filthy, wet sound.

She buried her face there, nose pressed deep, inhaling hard, moaning loud and shameless.

"These balls... fuck, I love them. So full. So heavy. I want them slapping my ass again. Want them emptying inside me till I’m dripping for days."

Devon growled, hand guiding her head, not forcing, just holding, letting her worship.

She licked back up, tongue flat and hungry, then sucked the head hard, hand pumping the shaft in tight, twisting strokes.

Spit poured down, soaking his balls, the sheets, her breasts.

She rubbed it in, slicking her nipples, her stomach, marking herself with him.

She climbed up slow, knees wide, pussy hovering just above his cock, dripping wet, swollen, aching from last night but greedy for more.

The air between them was thick, electric. She gripped him firm, aligned the thick head with her entrance, and sank down slow.

The stretch was divine. Burning. Full. Perfect. She gasped sharp, eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent scream as he filled her inch by inch, hot, hard, pulsing deep.

When he was buried to the hilt, she paused, grinding slow, clit rubbing his base, walls clenching tight around him, milking him.

"Oh fuck... oh fuck yes... so deep... so fucking deep... you’re splitting me open..."

She started moving.

Slow at first, hips rolling in lazy circles, rising up till just the tip stayed in, then slamming down hard, taking him balls-deep with a wet slap.

The bed creaked loud. Her tits bounced wild.

She leaned forward, hands on his chest, nails raking red lines as she rode him, faster, harder, wet sounds echoing sharp in the room. Her moans spilled free, loud, raw, unbroken.

"Yes! Fuck me! Fuck me with that winner cock! Own this pussy!"

Devon’s hands gripped her hips, thumbs digging into flesh, guiding her down harder, faster.

She bounced, ass slapping his thighs, pussy gushing, soaking him, the sheets, everything. She threw her head back, hair whipping, voice breaking.

"God, I love this! Love how you fill me! Love how you ruin me for anyone else!"

He flipped her sudden, still inside, rolling her onto her back, knees shoved to her chest. He drove in deep, relentless, the bed slamming the wall with every thrust. Her legs wrapped his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper.

She clawed his back, screamed his name, pussy clenching tight as the first orgasm hit—hard, violent, squirting wet around him, soaking his cock, his balls, the bed in a hot flood.

"YES! FUCK! I’M COMING! DON’T STOP! DON’T YOU FUCKING STOP!"

He didn’t.

Pounded through it, grunting low, sweat dripping from his brow onto her tits, cock slamming home again and again, deeper, harder, faster. She came again, body shaking, voice hoarse, tears of pleasure streaking her cheeks, nails drawing blood.

"More! Give me more! Fill me up! Breed me!"

He pulled out sudden, flipped her to her stomach, yanked her hips up.

She arched, ass high, face buried in the pillow, moaning muffled. He slammed back in from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back, the other slapping her ass hard—crack—red print blooming.

She screamed into the mattress, pushed back, meeting every thrust, pussy fluttering.

"Harder! Fuck me like you fucked his career! Break me!"

Devon growled, hips snapping, balls slapping her clit, the rhythm brutal, perfect.

She reached under, rubbed her clit frantic, came again, body convulsing, pussy milking him tight, squirting again, soaking his thighs.

He pulled out, flipped her back over, straddled her chest. She opened her mouth wide, tongue out, begging, eyes wild.

"Give it to me. On my face. In my mouth. On my tits. Please. I want all of it."

He stroked himself fast, once, twice, three times—thick ropes of cum shooting hot across her lips, her tongue, her cheeks, dripping down her chin, onto her tits, her neck, pooling in the hollow of her throat.

She moaned loud, licking it up, swallowing, rubbing it into her skin like lotion, fingers smearing it over her nipples, her stomach, her pussy.

"Fuck yes... so much... so hot... love your cum... love being your slut..."

She pulled him down, kissed him deep, sharing the taste, tongues sliding slick with cum and spit, bodies slick and spent, trembling.

But she wasn’t done.

Amara pushed him back, rolled on top again, pussy still dripping, cum and her juices mixing slick between her thighs.

She gripped his cock—still hard, always hard—and sank down slow, reverse this time, ass to him, facing the door.

She rode him backward, hands on his knees, arching her back, tits bouncing high, moaning loud and filthy.

"Look at me... look at this ass... all yours..."

Devon’s hands gripped her cheeks, spreading her wide, thumbs brushing her hole, making her gasp. She ground down, circled, then bounced—hard, fast, wet slaps echoing louder. Her fingers found her clit again, rubbing frantic.

"I’m gonna come again... fuck... on this cock... again..."

She did—screaming, squirting, soaking his stomach, his chest. He sat up sudden, wrapped arms around her, one hand on her throat, the other pinching her nipple hard.

He thrust up, meeting her, the angle deeper, hitting that spot that made her sob.

"Yes! Choke me! Own me! Fuck me till I can’t walk!"

He did. Flipped her again, this time to the edge of the bed, legs over his shoulders, pounding down, the bed frame cracking loud.

She came again, body arching off the mattress, toes curling, voice breaking into whimpers.

He pulled out, stroked himself over her—another load, hot and thick, painting her stomach, her pussy, dripping down her slit.

She rubbed it in, fingers slipping inside herself, fucking herself with his cum, moaning.

"More... always more..."

She crawled to him, took him in her mouth again, sucked him clean, tongue swirling, throat working till he was hard again.

She pushed him back, climbed on, rode him slow this time, savoring, grinding, whispering filth.

"You’re a god... a fucking god... this cock... this body... I’m addicted..."

The door creaked open slow, wood groaning like pain.

Julian stood in the doorway, scar pale as death, eyes wide, frozen—phone in hand.