She shakes her head once.
Defiant. Proud. Mine.
“Wrong answer, kardhoúla.”
I grip the flimsy straps of her bikini top—and tear.
The fabric snaps in my hands.
Her cry slices through the room.
“Atlas!”
But she doesn’t cover herself.
She doesn’t scramble for the towel.
She just breathes, chest rising and falling, bar-tipped nipples tight and begging to be tasted.
I don’t make her wait.
I lower my head and wrap my mouth around one perfect, pierced nipple.
Her scream turns into a broken moan.
Her hands fly to my hair, gripping, pulling—begging without words.
I suck deeper, tongue teasing the metal barbell, and her thighs fall open like she can’t help it.
My cock strains against my slacks, so hard it’s painful.
When I lift my head, her lips are parted, eyes glazed, wet curls spilling around her face as she pants.
“Fuck,” I murmur, shrugging off my shirt. “You should see yourself.”
Her gaze drags over every inch of me—my chest, my abs, the V cut disappearing into my pants—and her breath stutters.
Women have looked at me before.
Hungry, impressed, greedy.
But no one has ever looked at me like this.
Like maybe she wants my body and my soul in the same bite.
And somehow, that makes me even crazier.
“Fuck, Cece, those look uncomfortable,” I say, glancing at the tiny bikini bottoms barely clinging to her ass.
She swallows.
“Don’t you?—”
I rip them off.
She gasps, legs snapping together, but there’s no hiding.
Not from me.
