He hasn’t moved from his position near the couch—looming there with his hands casually stashed in his pockets—but even ten feet away, he has me pinned with his heated ogle. “It matters because you need to learn to trust me. And I want to see all of you. Everything that’s mine.”
His.
That’s the second time he’s referred to me that way. Hearing him say that is like a departure from reality.Dizzying. When did hechange his mind about us and become so staunch in his conviction?Part of me wonders if this is real or if I did fall off that beam and hit my head. This would be one hell of a brain-injury hallucination.
“I am yours,” I assure him because, hallucination or not, I have always been his, “but—”
“I wasn’t done,” he breaks in, prowling toward me with staggering intensity. “But at least we’re clear on that much. You are mine.”
When he reaches me, he sweeps my hair behind my shoulders and wraps his palm around my throat, lingering there for a beat before coiling his hand and skimming his knuckles over the pulse point in my neck. He’s studying me, examining every reaction my body bestows upon him—my flushing skin and the unmistakable tremble he’s evoking. He finally sinks his fingers into the built-in bra cups of my top and yanks them down so that my breasts spill out into the cool air, but they’re instantly warmed by the flicks and caresses he grants.
“It matters most,” he continues, “because I want you to understand that contrary to what your note claimed, I don’t only crave you in the dark. I crave you always. Everywhere.”
Well, okay. How can I argue with that?
My stomach clambers to my throat. This is all so much to digest.
It’s like when he told me he had always been hyperaware of my existence. Or that he couldn’t breathe when he thought I could be hurt or missing. That he’d want to die if something happened to me. I understand that sentiment in a visceral way. Maybe I haven’t been alone in my pining.
He peels the sleeves of my black bodysuit down until the top is pooled around my middle, causing shivers to skitter up my arms and spine. “In the future, I will not be repeating myself. Turn the lights back on, baby girl.”
Gulping down my reservations, I reach over and flip the switch up, abundantly aware of how the off-white glow glints on my nipple piercings—or on one of them. Because in a blink, Ty has the other in his mouth, licking, lapping, devouring.
“So fucking gorgeous,” he mutters against my skin as his fingers knead the other breast.
My breath catches, a lump lodging near the base of my sternum from how good his tongue and lips and fingers feel. From how real this moment with him is. I weave my hands into his hair, and he rips the bodysuit off in a smooth tug down my body, leaving me in my black satin thong.
His mouth descends on the small strip of fabric. Why that is so much hotter than simply baring me, I do not know. But it is. He inhales my clit, soaking the fabric with a determined swish of his tongue while his hands cup and squeeze my tender ass.
Vibrators really can’t mimic this sensation. Who knew?
Unmatched rapture shoots through me, rocketing heat and chills and carnal desire into my veins and muscles and bones, weakening my knees. I balance myself with one hand fisted in his curls and the other grasping his shoulder. After a strained whimper escapes me, he tears the thong off, tapping my thigh so that I step out of the small puddle of clothing.
He’s stooped before me, his cognac eyes skating up and down my naked form. I’ve never felt so exposed. But I’ve also never felt so cherished. The veneration lining his features is something to behold, like he’s worshipping me.
He drags his fingers across his mouth, emotion evident in his gaze while rasping, “Fuck, baby girl. Look at you, so goddamn radiant. Stunning.”
I could detail how my body is responding—the turbulent beats of my pulse in my limbs and stomach and temples; the scorching blaze searing my skin while goose bumps sprout from a quiver; my core throbbing with an eagerness to have him return to his post; and my arousal leaking down my inner thighs—but that would only be half the story. Because this man, on his knees before me, gaping at me as though I’m precious, has restored a part of my identity I didn’t even realize I was missing. My sternum melts into my spine, my lungs too overwhelmed to ingest the air.
He dots kisses across my pubic bone while his hands drift up and down my thighs, dangling my satisfaction just out of reach.
“Ty,” I plead because I’m losing my mind.
He chuckles against me, his breath fanning over my clit like bait reeling me in. My hips buck forward of their own accord, and his tongue briefly laps at my dripping wetness, which nearly has me liquefying to a boneless mess at his feet.
A crooked smile lifts his cheek, crinkling one eye as his focus flicks to my face. But he stills, bemused by what he finds. “You’re nervous. What happened to my brave girl? The one who boldly suggested that I punish her with my cock while I was making her come?”
Yeah, I did that. But again, it was dark. I need to shake off this diffidence. This isn’t me. It’s just years of buildup met with his wishy-washy interest and now his sudden one-eighty. My head is spinning, doubt creeping in.
Before I can form an answer, he stands to his full, towering stature, lifting my chin with one hand while the other teases my opening until finally relenting and dipping in and out.
“No insecurities with me, Rena. Do you have any idea how perfect you are? How exquisite and breathtaking? I should keep you naked all the time.”
Masking the precarious teetering of my heart at the sight of the reverence he’s casting on me, I flash a cheeky grin. “That might amplify the intensity of telling the fam. Don’t you think?”
Ignoring my witty repartee, he lifts his glistening fingers between us, lewdly sucking them with a growl. “Heaven,” he utters. “You’re sopping for me, Little Moon. For me. Only me.”
That rings out like a warning, and I have no doubt it is one. But he’s already proffered those. This is more.
