The world narrows to this. To him. To the way he feels. My body doesn’t just respond; it surrenders.
His mouth falls open, like he’s so overwhelmed he can’t even kiss me anymore, like he needs every last ounce of focus just to process what he’s feeling.
He begins to move his fingers—not perfect, not practiced—desperate. And somehow his clumsiness is the sexiest thing about it.
“I haven’t . . .” he starts. His head drops forward, forehead brushing mine like it’s the only way to hold himself together. “Not in so long. AndJesus, Daisy—you feel amazing.”
“You’ve been thinking about this.”
“Constantly,” he admits, the word ripped from him like a confession he never meant to make. Like it costs him something to say it out loud.
“I want to hear you say it,” I whisper.
“Say what?”
“How much you fantasize about me.”
“Desperately.Obsessively.All the fucking time.”
He slides his fingers over my clit and I throb.
“I’ve imagined this,” he groans, “more times than is appropriate. More times than I can count.”
“And?” I challenge.
His eyes lock with mine. “And I’m done imagining.”
Like a man starved, he lifts me. Sets me down on the kitchen table.
My skirt rides up, gathering high at my hips, leaving me exposed and completely at his mercy.
His pupils blow wide.
“Jesus,” he whispers, almost reverent.
I am completely bare.
And judging by the way he’s looking at me—
I have never been more worshipped in my life.
His hand finds me first, sliding through my slick heat. I move against him instinctively, chasing the friction, grinding against his palm with a shamelessness I don’t even try to hide.
But then—suddenly—his hand is gone.
A whimper escapes me, the loss unbearable.
I open my mouth to protest—
But then—oh, fuck—his mouth is on me.
I gasp and buck off the table at the first wet, hot press of his tongue against my clit.
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ease me into it.
Hedevoursme. Like he’s been waitingso longfor this he doesn’t have the patience to be slow.
A deep, guttural sound tears from his throat, vibrating against me.
