I close my lips around his finger and drag my tongue along the length of it, tasting sugar and heat and him, watching his jaw tighten and his breath stutter like I’ve knocked the wind out of him.
He mutters something — fuck — and in a blink the bowl is gone and his hands are on my hips, gripping tight, grounding or claiming or both.
“Do you know what I thought about,” he whispers, voice dark and dangerous, “while I tried to fall asleep last night?”
“What?” My voice is barely a breath.
“That mouth.”
His thumb brushes the corner of my lips.
“That tongue.”
His hand slips lower, slow, deliberate, claiming its territory inch by inch.
“And how sweet you’d taste,” he murmurs, leaning in, lips brushing mine, “if I pushed you up on this counter and had my way with you.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My chest. My thighs. My every breath.
“Dax…”
“You ever been fucked in a kitchen, butterfly?”
I shake my head.
He groans — like that answer did something to him.
“Good,” he says, backing me toward the counter. “Then I get to be the first.”
My ass hits the edge, and he lifts me with a growl like he can’t help himself anymore — like his control’s finally snapped. He spreads my legs and steps between them, and it’s everything — his hands, his mouth, the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever tasted good.
“I should take you slow,” he mutters against my skin, dragging kisses along my jaw, my throat, lower. “But every time you moan, every time you say my name, I forget how to be gentle.”
“I don’t want gentle,” I breathe. “I want you.”
That does it.
He drops to his knees.
And fuck, when he looks up at me from between my legs, smirking like a devil with flour still dusted on his hands—I know I’m not walking away from this man.
Not now.
Not ever.
His breath is warm where it ghosts over my skin, just above where I need him most.
He spreads my thighs with hands that tremble like he’s fighting himself, like the beast inside him doesn’t want to wait. But he does. Fuck, he does. Because even when he’s on his knees, he’s still the one in control and I’m the one falling apart.
“Open wider for me, butterfly,” he murmurs, voice so low I feel it throb between my legs. “Let me see how wet you are just from watching me lick my fingers.”
I open for him like I was made to be worshipped by this man and when he groans — low and raw and reverent — it feels like sin and salvation all at once.
“Fuck,” he breathes, dragging his thumb through me, slow and filthy. “Look at you.”
I can’t even breathe but I feel it — the slow drag of his tongue, the way he licks me like he’s starving, like he’s waited his whole fucking life for this taste and he’s not going to waste a single second.
He moans into me, tongue flattening, teasing, curling — then pulling back, then going again, like he wants to torment me sweet and slow before he completely ruins me.
