But I don’t want her hesitant. I want her fearless.
And it’s like she can read my mind because the next thing she does is narrow her eyes, and then she moves with purpose, fingers through my hair as she presses her slick sex to my mouth.
Finally.
And now, I eat.
Chapter Twenty-One-Atlas
She tells me to take her.
And I do.
First, with my mouth.
Having my woman’s hot, dripping sex on my face is just about the best fucking thing I could ever imagine.
My hands gripping her lush curves, forcing her down harder while I plunge my tongue into her, needy sex.
“Fuck, Atlas,” she moans, and I am so there for it.
I squeeze her ass, probing her tiny, puckered hole with my pinky. She is so damn lush. So sexy. Her channel squeezes my tongue as I lick and suck and plunge into her, using my nose to press against her clit—and then she loses all inhibition.
Cecilia rocks against my face. And it is glorious.
She shouts my name as she comes, and it’s like a divine symphony.
I flip us over, need washing over me like a tidal wave.
But I’m not in a rush.
Not in a haze of lust so blinding I lose the meaning of this moment.
No, I want to take my time with her. I want her to know this means more than mere words.
Because this isn’t just about hunger or power or paybacks.
Not anymore.
This is about worship. Possession. Desperation.
I guide her gently down onto the bed, our bodies still touching, hands tangled. Her hair fans out across the silk sheets like dark fire, and her eyes—fuck, her midnight colored eyes—they lock on mine like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I won’t.
Not tonight.
Not ever, if I have any say in it.
“You’re so beautiful it hurts,” I murmur, brushing her hair back. “And you’re mine, Cece. Not his. Not Alfred’s. No one else’s. Just mine.”
Her breath stutters, and I feel her tremble beneath me. Not from fear.
From anticipation.
She deserves more than brute force. More than being taken. She deserves to be seen.
I lean down and kiss the tattoo on her wrist first—her little sun.
