I slap the inside of her thigh, not hard—just enough to sting. “Say it.”
Her voice is a broken whisper. “I’m your filthy little whore.”
A growl builds low in my throat. “That’s right. My perfect little slut. Every filthy fantasy in those pages? I’ll do them all with you.”
She lets out a strangled moan, teetering right on the edge.
“Not yet,” I snap, pulling my mouth away just before she tips over. Her cry is sharp, desperate. Her hips jerk, chasing my mouth. I hold her down.
“Please,” she whispers, looking down at me.
“I said watch.”
Her eyes dart up to the mirror again—wild, undone.
“Touch yourself,” I command. “Right there. Like you do when I’m not around.”
Her hand moves shakily between her legs, fingertips circling her clit with slow, tentative strokes. She’s already so close—already so wet around my fingers. I keep them buried deep. My knuckles brush the sweet, tender ache inside her as I curl them just right.
“You’re going to come with my whole hand inside you,” I growl, my voice rough with hunger, “and you’re going to watch yourself in that mirror while you do.”
Her eyes flick up, catching her reflection—glazed, panting, desperate. I slide my other fingers in, stretching her open, filling her completely. I add one finger at a time until my whole hand is inside her—tight, pulsing heat wrapped around my knuckles. I curl them into a slow, deliberate fist.
Her body bucks, muscles tightening around me, hips jerking forward in frantic little thrusts. In and out, I work my hand through her, pushing past resistance, claiming every inch. The sound is obscene—wet and raw—and it only makes her moan louder. She whimpers, thighs trembling violently, her orgasm building, spiraling too fast to control.
“You gonna come for me, baby?” I rasp, my mouth at her ear. “Show me how good my dirty little book slut can be. Come on, let me feel it. Let me see that pretty face fall apart.”
She shatters.
Her cry is low, raw, breaking against the walls as she clenches around my fist, her hips jerking uncontrollably. Her head tips back, then forward again, watching herself fall apart in the mirror.
I don’t let up.
I keep my balled hand moving through every pulse of her orgasm, drawing it out, feeding on every whimper until her body collapses into the ottoman, boneless and panting.
I rise slowly, grabbing her chin and tilting her face toward mine. I kiss her—slow and deep—claiming every last sound she makes. Then I lift her up and carry her toward the bed, because I’m not nearly finished.
I kneel on the edge of the bed, spreading her open, watching the way her slick folds pulse—still clenching from the orgasm I dragged out of her. “You don’t know what you do to me,” I murmur, dragging my tongue across the inside of her thigh, leaving a wet, possessive trail. I glance up at her. She’s watchingme again, her fingers curled into the blankets, eyes glassy and waiting.
And then I devour her. No teasing. No restraint. I eat her like I’m starving, like her pussy is the only goddamn food I’ve ever known. My tongue drives into her, my lips locking around her clit and sucking hard, over and over, until she’s clawing at the sheets, her cries raw and desperate.
She jerks beneath me, thighs shaking around my head, but I hold her steady, grinding my mouth against her like a man possessed. She tastes like sin and surrender—sweet and sharp and completely mine.
“Damian—please—I can’t,” she gasps, but her hips are bucking into my face, chasing every flick of my tongue.
“You can,” I growl against her. “You’re going to come again, and then I’m going to fuck you so deep you’ll feel me every time you walk through that goddamn bakery.”
Her moan breaks.
I thrust two fingers inside her again, curling them, stroking that soft, swollen spot that makes her legs fly apart.
She unravels again.
Hard.
Her scream rips through the room as she comes for me again, her body jerking, writhing, soaking my hand, my mouth, everything. Her nails dig into her own stomach, trying to ground herself as I ride her through it—relentless, merciless.
Fuck, I need to be inside her.
