He'd dropped to his knees and put his mouth on me.
No warning. No preamble. Just his tongue sliding through my folds, licking up everything I'd been denying all day.
I arched off the bed, my hands flying to his hair. "Olek?—"
"That's it." He spoke against me, the vibration making me whimper. "Say my name while I taste you."
His tongue found my clit, circling it with maddening precision. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just perfect, devastating pressure that had me trembling in seconds.
"How long has it been?" he murmured, sliding one finger inside me. "Since someone touched you like this?"
Too long. Years. Not since?—
I shoved the thought away. I wasn't thinking about Marcus. Not now. Not while Olek's mouth was doing things that made my brain short-circuit.
"That long?" He added a second finger, curling them just right. "No wonder you're so tight. So responsive."
"Less talking," I gasped. "More—oh, fuck?—"
He sucked my clit into his mouth hard, and I saw stars.
My thighs tried to close around his head, but he held them open, one hand splayed across my stomach to keep me in place.
"Stay still," he commanded. "Let me work."
And God, he worked.
His tongue and fingers moved in perfect rhythm, building me up and backing off, building me higher and retreating again. It was torture. It was heaven. It was everything I'd been too afraid to want.
"Please," I heard myself say. "Please, Olek?—"
"Please what?"
"Make me come. Please make me?—"
"There it is." His voice was pure satisfaction. "There's my girl, begging so prettily."
He sucked hard on my clit, fingers curling inside me, and I shattered.
The orgasm ripped through me like lightning, white-hot and all-consuming. I cried out his name—couldn't help it, couldn't stop it—and he groaned against me like my pleasure was his. He worked me through it, licking and sucking and drawing it out until I was trembling, oversensitive, pushing at his head.
"Too much," I whimpered.
"Not nearly enough." But he pulled back, his mouth and chin wet with me. "That's one."
I blinked at him through the haze. "One?"
"I told you I'd make you come so hard you forgot your name." He stood and started unbuttoning his shirt. "That was just the warm-up."
Oh God.
I was in so much trouble.
Katrina
Iwatched him undress with my heart still racing, and my body still trembling from the aftershocks. The shirt came off first, revealing a torso that had no right to be that perfect. Broad shoulders, defined pectorals, abs that proved that he stayed in the gym. But it wasn't the muscle that made my breath catch—it was the scars.
A puckered circle on his left shoulder. Gunshot, probably. A long, jagged line across his ribs. Knife wound. Smaller marks scattered across his skin like a roadmap of violence.
