Her breath hitches again, then goes all the way out in a gasp.
God, that's hot.
I could have torn it. Just ripped it away with my hands, but where’s the appeal in that?
This is way better.
More fulfilling.
I need her to see—to know—that when I want something, I take it apart with care.
By the time I'm done, her tights are in strips, and her panties—if you can call that thin slip of lace "panties"—are soaked, so ruined by slick the fabric looks pearled and sheer.
I touch the edge of them, slow, testing her.
She moans, high and pretty, and her hips shift forward on the counter, offering herself up like she's never wanted anything more.
My cock throbs so hard I see spots.
Military discipline my ass.
If I was sober, I might still be slow-rolling my decision tree, asking myself:Is this the right move? Is this too much?
But I'm not.
I'm warm, fuzzy, riding the high of her taste and the crash of adrenaline, and for once in my goddamn life, I'm acting on instinct.
That instinct says:take, devour, and don't you dare waste a single second.
I lick my lips again—her taste, sharp and sweet, still sticky and hot on my mouth.
She watches.
She's not ashamed, not even a little, just glassy-eyed and openly obsessed with what I'm about to do next.
"Goddamn," I mutter, savoring the last drop from my bottom lip. "You smell like a cupcake I'd gladly eat again and again."
A crooked smile splits her face.
All mischief, all challenge.
"And here I was worried you'd compare me to a donut," she fires back, voice still trembling but proud of herself. "Cupcake's way hotter."
"Only if you like your cupcakes sticky and a little bit ruined," I counter, dragging my hand up the inside of her thigh. Every inch of skin is scorching, every pulse of muscle under my fingers is another little shockwave of need.
I drag the knife a little higher, just to show off. She shivers at the chilled touch of the blade against her flesh, and I’m impressed that she’s not frightened of me doing anything worse. The trust she has for me is real, raw, and admirable, which is why I know my taunting is enough. I close the blade with a snap and shove it somewhere behind my back.
She stares at my hands, at the way I never so much as graze her skin with the blade, hyper-aware but never nervous.
She trusts me.
Fuck…this can be far to addicting.
Her trust is addictive.
For one sharp second, time goes weirdly quiet.
Just us.
