Black: 1000 Nights of Desires

2

**Chapter 2: The First Taste**

The kiss doesn’t break so much as it deepens, becomes something feral. Markus’s tongue strokes mine in long, claiming sweeps, and I meet him with equal hunger, biting at his lower lip until he growls low in his throat. My hands are already frantic—clawing at the ruined halves of his shirt, shoving the fabric off his shoulders so it hangs from his elbows like surrender flags. His skin is fever-hot under my palms, dusted with dark hair that rasps against my fingertips. I drag my nails down his chest, hard enough to leave faint red trails, and he hisses into my mouth.

He doesn’t ask permission. He simply grips my hips and lifts me onto the island like I weigh nothing. The granite is shockingly cold against the backs of my thighs, a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body as he steps between my spread legs. My skirt bunches at my waist in careless folds; the hem rides high enough that the lace edge of my underwear is visible in the dim light. Markus’s gaze drops there for one burning second before snapping back to my face.

“God, Dorcas,” he mutters, voice gravel-rough. “Look at you.”

I don’t have time to feel shy. His mouth crashes back to mine—deeper, hungrier, teeth clashing in the rush. One hand fists in my hair, tilting my head so he can devour my throat; the other slides up my inner thigh, thumb brushing the damp cotton between my legs. I jerk at the contact, a broken sound escaping me.

He pulls back just enough to watch my face as his fingers trace lazy circles over the soaked fabric. “You’re dripping for me already.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but I don’t look away. “Been like this since you kissed me.”

His eyes flash dark with satisfaction. Then he’s kissing me again, swallowing my moans as his fingers slip beneath the lace. The first direct touch—skin on slick skin—makes my hips buck. He finds my c**t with devastating accuracy, circling slow and firm until my thighs start to tremble around his waist.

I need more. I need all of him.

My hands fumble between us, yanking at his belt. The buckle clatters; the zipper rasps down. I wrap my fingers around him through the thin barrier of his boxers—thick, hot, pulsing—and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to mine.

“Careful,” he warns, but there’s no real reprimand in it—only raw need.

I stroke him once, twice, feeling him thicken further in my grip. Then I push the waistband down and take him in my hand properly. Velvet over steel. He groans, hips jerking forward into my fist.

“f**k—Dorcas—”

I don’t let him finish the sentence. I guide him closer, rubbing the blunt head along my soaked folds through the ruined lace. We both shudder at the contact. His hands clamp on my hips, holding me still while he rocks against me in shallow, teasing thrusts that make my breath hitch every time he nudges my c**t.

But he’s not ready to give in yet.

He steps back—only an inch, just enough to break the contact—and hooks his fingers into the sides of my underwear. One sharp tug and the lace tears; the sound is obscene in the quiet kitchen. He doesn’t apologize. He simply pockets the ruined scrap like a trophy, then spreads my thighs wider with both hands.

I’m completely exposed now, glistening under the soft under-cabinet lights. His gaze rakes over me, possessive, reverent. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then he drops to his knees.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, deliberate—flat and broad from entrance to c**t. I cry out, hands flying to his hair. He doesn’t rush. He tastes me like I’m something rare and expensive, lapping at my folds, circling my entrance, then flicking the tip of his tongue against that swollen bundle of nerves until my hips lift off the counter.

“Markus—please—”

He hums against me, the vibration shooting straight through my core. Then he sucks my c**t into his mouth—gentle at first, then harder—and slides two fingers inside me at the same time. They curl upward, stroking that perfect spot while his tongue works relentless circles. My thighs clamp around his head; my back arches so hard the cold marble bites into my spine.

He doesn’t let up.

Every stroke, every suck, every curl of his fingers winds me tighter. My moans turn into gasps, then whimpers, then something wordless and desperate. My fingers twist in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he only groans in approval and doubles down.

I’m close—dangerously close—and he knows it.

He pulls back just long enough to look up at me, lips shiny, eyes wild. “Come on my tongue, little one. Let me taste it.”

The endearment—once innocent—now filthy and perfect—snaps something inside me.

I shatter.

The orgasm hits like a wave breaking over rocks—hard, relentless, pulling me under. My whole body locks, thighs squeezing his head, back bowing off the island as I come with a cry that echoes off the tiled walls. He doesn’t stop. His mouth stays on me, tongue gentling but never leaving, fingers still stroking through the pulsing contractions until I’m shaking, oversensitive, pleading.

Only then does he ease back.

He rises slowly, kissing a path up my trembling body—inner thigh, hip, stomach, the underside of my breast. When he reaches my mouth he tastes of me, of salt and musk and raw want. I kiss him back greedily, tasting myself on his tongue, my hands roaming his bare back, nails digging into the flexing muscle.

We’re both breathing like we’ve run for miles.

He rests his forehead against mine, one hand still cupping me possessively between my legs, feeling the aftershocks ripple through me.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

I manage a shaky laugh. “I think you just ruined me for anyone else.”

His mouth curves—slow, satisfied, a little dangerous. “Good.”

He kisses me again, softer this time, almost tender. But his c**k is still hard against my thigh, throbbing with unmet need, and I can feel the tension coiled in every line of his body.

We’re not done.

Not even close.

His hand slides up to cradle the back of my neck, thumb brushing my jaw. “Bedroom?” he murmurs against my lips.

I shake my head, legs still wrapped around him. “Not yet.”

I reach between us, wrap my fingers around him again, and guide him right where I want him—hot, blunt, pressing at my entrance.

His breath catches.

“Dorcas—”

I rock my hips forward, taking just the tip inside. We both groan at the stretch, the heat.

“Here,” I whisper. “Right here. Right now.”

His control fractures.

He surges forward in one long, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden fullness makes my eyes roll back; my nails score down his back. He stills for a heartbeat—letting me adjust, letting us both feel it—then starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Every withdrawal drags against every sensitive inch inside me; every thrust bottoms out with a wet slap that fills the kitchen.

I cling to him, legs locked around his waist, meeting every roll of his hips. The island creaks beneath us. His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, sucking bruises into places my clothes will cover tomorrow.

We f**k like we’re making up for lost time—like every year I spent wanting him in silence is being burned away in this single, frantic joining.

When he finally comes it’s with my name on his lips, hips slamming deep one last time as he pulses inside me. The heat of it triggers another smaller climax for me—sharp, bright, unexpected—and I clench around him hard enough to make him swear.

We stay locked together afterward, breathing hard, sweat-slick, hearts hammering against each other.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead he kisses me slow and lazy, hands roaming my body like he’s memorizing every curve.

Eventually he lifts his head, eyes searching mine.

“No regrets?” he asks quietly.

I smile—small, sated, utterly shameless.

“Only that we waited this long.”

He laughs—low, rough, relieved—and kisses me again.

The kitchen light flickers once, then steadies.

Outside, the night is still quiet.

Inside, something has irrevocably changed.

And neither of us is sorry.