I pull him free.
He’s perfect. Hard as stone, thick, pulsing with want, a bead of pre-come gleaming at the tip.
My breath catches. The need to take him into my mouth hits so fiercely it makes my jaw ache.
I look up at him. His head is tipped back, eyes shut tight, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
“Look at me, Cohen,” I command.
He opens his eyes. They’re dark pools of lust, hazy and unfocused.
“You’re a witch,” he pants. “You’re going to kill me.”
“No,” I say softly. “I’m going to drive you insane.”
I lean down and lick him—
one long, slow stroke, from base to tip.
Cohen arches off the bed, a strangled sound tearing from his throat. His hands fist in my hair, fingers tightening in the strands.
I open my mouth and take him in.
The head presses against my soft palate and I moan, the taste of him—salt, skin, and want—flooding my tongue.
I start to move.
Up and down.
I wrap my hand around the base, adding pressure, while my mouth works the tip.
I want to torture him. I want him to feel every inch, every pull, every slow drag.
He swears, a nonstop stream of filthy words.
“Yes… fuck, yes… you’re so warm… suck it, Angel…”
The broken sound of his voice turns me on more than anything else.
I pick up the pace.
I take him deeper, pushing past my gag reflex, forcing my throat to open for him. I want all of him. I want him to know he belongs to me.
I feel him throb against my tongue, growing even harder in my mouth.
It’s pure power.
Feeling him unravel under my touch, feeling his steel-hard muscles tense, his thighs starting to shake…
“Look at me,” he growls.
I lift my eyes without stopping, my mouth still working him.
He watches me as I take him, as my cheeks hollow around his length. The sight alone looks like it pushes him right to the edge.
He starts rocking his hips into me, fucking my mouth.
“Fuck… Sloane, I can’t… you’re too good… Angel, you need to move now if you don’t want—”
