“Don’t move.” He orders.
The command sends heat straight to my core. I should bristle at being told what to do. Instead, I grip the edge of the rug above my head and watching him through heavy-lidded eyes.
He strips off his shirt in one fluid motion. Firelight dances across his skin, highlighting the ridges of muscle and the scars that tell stories I don’t know yet. Claw marks across his ribs. Battle scars that make him even more beautiful.
A cute little bite mark on his shoulder.
“You’re staring,” he says, a hint of dark humor in his tone. “Admiring your handiwork?”
I shrug, giving him a cheeky smile. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just worth staring at.”
His jaw tightens. He reaches for the hem of my shirt and starts working the buttons with surprising patience. Each one opened brings his mouth to new skin. A kiss to my collarbone. My sternum. The curve of my breast where it swells above my bra.
By the time he parts the fabric, I’m trembling.
“Still okay?” he asks, because beneath the hunger, I hear genuine concern.
“If you stop now, I’ll kill you.”
His laugh is low, pleased. “That’s my girl.”
My bra follows, then my jeans. He takes his time with each piece, fingers brushing skin as he reveals it, making me feel worshipped rather than exposed. By the time I’m down to just underwear, I’m shaking with the effort of keeping still.
“So responsive.” Satisfaction colors his voice as he traces the wet spot on the fabric with his thumb. “All for me.”
He catches my hands when I reach for him, pinning both wrists above my head with just one of his.
“Not yet.” This casual display of strength shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. “You gave me control. Now take what I give you.”
He holds my gaze, waiting. I could break away. He’s being careful not to actually restrain me. But I don’t want to. I want whatever comes next.
“Keep them there.” He orders, releasing my wrists.
I grip the rug to anchor myself and watch him slide down my body. His hands part my thighs, and then his mouth is on me through the thin fabric, heat and pressure that makes me cry out.
When I start to mewl and moan, burying my fingers in his hair, he smirks.
“Shh.” He hooks his fingers in my underwear and drags them down my legs, tossing them aside. Then he settles between my thighs like he belongs there. “Let me taste you.”
The first swipe of his tongue is electric. I buck against him, and he pins my hips down, holding me still while he devours me with focused intensity. There’s no teasing, no slow build-up, just relentless pressure exactly where I need it.
“Oh God.” My hands tug the strands.
He pauses just long enough to move them back above my head. “What did I say?”
“I can’t. It’s too much.”
“You can.” His eyes meet mine, golden in the firelight. “And you will.”
When he adds two fingers inside me, curling them just right while his tongue circles my clit, I shatter. My whole body bows off the rug, pleasure crashing through me in waves.
He works me through every aftershock, drawing out the orgasm until I’m gasping. Then he’s moving up my body, covering me with his heat, his weight.
“Beautiful.” When kisses me, I can taste myself on his lips. “But we’re not done.”
I hear his belt clink, feel him shifting to remove the last of his clothes. When he settles back between my thighs, the thick length of him presses against my entrance, and I tense slightly.
He notices immediately. “We can stop.”
