“Lie back,” he says.
I don’t move.
“Now.”
I fall back onto the bed, heart pounding in my throat, thighs still slightly parted from how he’d been standing between them. I hear the low rasp of his belt as he undoes it, the clink of the buckle loud in the silence.
He’s going to ruin me. And I’m about to let him.
Before I can breathe, he’s on his knees. His hands grip my thighs, pushing them apart like he owns the right, and maybe, in this moment, he does. He tugs the nightgown the rest of the way down, dragging it over my hips, my thighs, baring me completely. When he sees I’m not wearing anything underneath, his mouth curls into something feral.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters.
His palms slide under my thighs and pull me to the very edge of the bed. My legs drape over his shoulders. I brace on my elbows, heart pounding so hard I feel it in my throat.
Then his mouth is on me.
He licks me like he’s starving. Long, deep strokes of his tongue that make my back arch and my fingers twist in the sheets. His stubble scrapes my inner thighs, and I can’t tell if I want to push him away or hold him closer forever.
But he doesn’t let me decide. He keeps going.
And when I moan his name, he groans into me like it’s the only thing he ever wanted to hear.
He doesn’t stop. His tongue flicks over my clit again and again, like he’s learning every part of me. Like he has all night to make me come undone.
I look down at him, and the sight is almost too much. Alaric Moretti, kneeling between my legs, his face buried in my pussy like it’s the last thing he’ll ever taste.
Then he slips a finger inside. I gasp, loud and uncontrollable.
“Alaric,” I cry, my voice cracking on his name.
He groans against me. The sound vibrates through my core.
He adds another finger, stretching me just right. His mouth stays at my clit, tongue moving in circles, then a slow flick, then back to circles again. The rhythm is maddening, perfect, cruel.
My head falls back. I’m moaning without shame now, rolling my hips to meet every stroke of his fingers. His mouth. His devotion.
It’s not just sex. It’s something else entirely. Like he’s trying to brand me with pleasure. Like if he makes me come hard enough, I’ll forget every reason I have to hate him.
And in this moment, I just might.
My body’s spiraling fast, heat curling low in my belly. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, holding on for dear life.
He lifts his head just enough to speak, voice wrecked and hoarse.
“You taste like a fucking dream,” he says, breath brushing against my swollen clit. “I could eat you for hours.”
I’m close. So close it hurts.
His fingers keep moving inside me, hitting that perfect spot over and over while his mouth stays locked around my clit.
The pressure builds so fast I can’t keep up with it. I can’t breathe through it. My thighs clamp tighter around his head, but he doesn’t stop. He groans into me like this is exactly what he wants.
“Fuck,” I gasp, the sound raw and broken. “Alaric, I?—”
My back arches.
And then it hits.
