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When we were both naked, vulnerable beneath the dim light, my pulse raced. Jaxon lowered his head to my collarbone, trailing kisses down my chest. Each press of his lips sent sparks racing through my veins. He moved lower, mapping my body with his mouth as if memorizing every curve, every sensitive spot that made me gasp.
“Jaxon,” I breathed, my back arching when his lips found my inner thigh.
The air around us seemed charged, heavy with anticipation. My skin tingled. My core threatened to explode.
His hot breath teased against my most sensitive flesh, sending waves of anticipation through my body. When his tongue finally made contact, I gasped, fingers clutching at the sheets beneath me. He worked deliberately, each stroke precise and measured, building a rhythm that had me writhing.
“Please,” I whimpered, my hips rising to meet his mouth.
I felt him smile against me before he intensified his efforts, hands gripping my thighs to hold me in place. The pressure built inside me, a coiling tension that promised sweet release. Just as I teetered on the edge, my breathing ragged and desperate, Jaxon pulled away.
“Not yet,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent.
I made a sound of frustration, somewhere between a moan and a sob. The denial was exquisite torture, leaving me trembling and desperate.
Two fingers slid inside me.
Stars exploded across my vision.
“Tell me, bella, how much did this beautiful pussy miss me?”
My hips bucked into his touch. A small moan escaped my lips.
“Louder. I didn’t catch that,” he growled.
“So much,” I gasped.
“Hmm….” His tongue flicked at my clit. “I know you’re telling the truth. Your pussy is fucking weeping for my dick.”
His gaze flickered up to meet mine, dark with wicked intention.
I nearly came undone.
He felt it and withdrew his touch.
My scream of frustration only made him smile more.
“You think you can come whenever you want?” His voice was low, dangerous, his breath hot against my slick flesh. “Not until I say so.”
His tongue returned, but this time with maddening deliberation—light, teasing strokes that built me up without pushing me over. His fingers curled inside me, finding that perfect spot that made my vision blur.
“Look at you,” he murmured against my thigh, “so desperate for me. I bet you touched yourself thinking about this, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I admitted, shameless in my need.
His thumb circled my clit as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm. “Tell me what you imagined. Every filthy detail.”
“I—I thought about your mouth,” I gasped, my hips chasing his touch when he deliberately slowed. “And your hands.”
“What else?” he demanded.
Heat bloomed over my cheeks.
His fingers pushed back inside me with deliberate slowness, curling upward in a motion that made my vision blur. My hips rocked into his touch, seeking more friction, more pressure.
“What else, Isabella?” There was a dark, delicious warning in his tone.
I moaned, desperate to find the release he promised.
