I follow the same pattern, drawing swirls and cross marks over her chest. When I’m finished, she’s panting and covered in crimson. It’s hardening quickly, but the picture of her drenched in blood, feral and waiting for more, is not one I can quickly erase from my mind.
Maybe ever.
“You…” I say, breathless, blowing out the candle and tossing it to the ground. I slide my hands over the wax, cupping her tits in my hands. “…are a vision, tentatrice. Je suis amoureux de ta perfection.”
I cough a little at the end of my sentence, realizing a moment too late what I’ve inadvertently confessed to without even fully processing what I’m saying.
She gasps, threading her fingers through mine, making me squeeze her fully as she arches into the gesture.
The wax is hard on her skin, like it’s trying to cast her body in a mold. She meets my eyes, hunger lighting hers. “More?”
“Wax or words?”
“Words. Please. I want to hear you.”
Humming, I bend and drag my tongue up from the hollow of her throat, all the way to her chin. “Tu as un goût incroyable. Je veux me régaler de toi pour le reste de nos vies.”
Scoring my teeth over the underside of her jaw, I shift, rolling my cock against her cunt. She lets out a small whimper, tightening her legs around me in a silent plea.
My fingers trail up her thigh, coasting until I feel the fabric still covering her. With two digits, I find her soaked center,gliding slowly up her seam through those panties, reveling in how she writhes at the barest touch.
“Tu es belle.”
It’s intoxicating, how badly she wants this. How I ache to touch her, kiss her, be in her. How wet she is from a little foreplay, her body making it clear she belongs to me.
Fuck.
That’s not right, but it’s how I feel.
I want to claim Elle for myself—forever, all of eternity. Rules and pasts be fucking damned.
I want to bury myself so deeply inside her that it’d take multiple lifetimes for her to ever push me out. I want her under my skin, living in my blood, consuming me from the inside out.
“Dis s’il te plaît.” I tug her panties to the side, delving between her sopping folds, skirting over her clit and hovering near her entrance. “Say please, baby.”
“How do I say it in French?”
“How badly do you want it?”
“Really bad.” She makes a strangled noise in her throat. “It’s all I think about. You filling me, over and over, until I’m a sweet, sobbing mess.”
My chest grows hot. “Je t’en supplie.”
“Je t’en supplie,” she repeats, licking her lips. She says it again, this time more desperate. “Je…t’en…supplie.”
Leaning in, I slant my mouth across hers at the same time I plunge two fingers into her cunt, the immediate warmth and tightness as she spasms making me moan. She captures the sound, swallowing it as she slices her tongue against mine, her hands tangling in my hair.
Each time I kiss her, it feels like the world is stopping and starting all at once. Like time forcibly stands still, waiting for us to come up for air or die trying.
Our teeth gnash, scraping as the connection grows hungrier, needier, and suddenly what we’re doing isn’t enough. I tear my lips away with a low growl, shouldering my way between her thighs to add my tongue to the mix, lapping at her cunt like it’s the only source of water in the desert.
Her hands pull at the roots of my hair as she drives her hips against my face, riding her way to pleasure. I pump my fingers in short, curled bursts, chasing the way her body moves and noting the exact things that make her clamp down around me like a fucking vise.
“Fuck,” I groan into her slick, sensitive flesh. “Tu as un goût si doux.”
“Oh, shit. Sutton—” Her hips arc up, seeking more, and I use my forearm to pin her back on the mattress.
“Look at me when my mouth is on you, or I’ll stop,” I tell her, sucking at her clit.
