I obey, sliding silk down my body with intentional slowness. My injured shoulder protests slightly when I raise my arm, but the pain is manageable. Tolerable. Nothing compared to the need building in my core.
When I'm bare before him, Archer circles me like a predator assessing prey. His gaze maps every inch of my body with possessive attention that makes me tremble. He lingers on my injured shoulder, fingers ghosting over the healing wounds with exquisite gentleness.
"Beautiful," he says. "And mine."
"Yours," I confirm. "Sir."
He guides me to the bed, arranging pillows to support my injured shoulder before positioning me exactly where he wants me. On my back. Good arm extended above my head. Injured arm resting comfortably against pillows. Legs spread. Completely exposed and vulnerable.
Archer retrieves silk rope from the nightstand drawer, and before he proceeds he asks, "Color?"
"Green," I whisper. "So green."
He strips with focused efficiency, revealing the powerful body I've mapped with hands and mouth. When he moves to settle beside me on the bed, I stop him with a look.
"Wait," I say, and there's enough command in my voice that he pauses. "I want to touch you first. Need to prove I'm recovered enough for this."
His eyes darken with heat and understanding. "You don't need to prove anything."
“I need to.” I shift carefully, mindful of my shoulder, until I’m kneeling on the bed beside him. “Let me.”
For a moment I think he’ll refuse, that control will snap back into place before he allows this. Instead, he studies me, measuring, then nods. He settles against the pillows, hands laced behind his head in a posture of deliberate surrender he chooses, one we both know won’t last.
“Show me,” he says, voice rough. “But if your shoulder?—”
“I’ll tell you.” I lean down, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Trust me.”
I take my time, mapping his body the way he’s mapped mine countless times before. My mouth finds the hollow of his throat, tongue tasting salt and heat, teeth scraping lightly enough to make his breath catch. I work lower, kissing across his collarbone, down his sternum, pausing to circle his nipple with my tongue until his hands fist in the sheets.
“Marissa,” he growls, and I hear the edge beneath the restraint.
“Patience,” I murmur against his skin, feeling his quiet laugh rumble through his chest.
"You're playing with fire."
"I know." I kiss lower, across his abs, feeling the muscles tense beneath my lips. When I reach the defined V of his hips, I pause to look up at him. "Color?"
His laugh is darker this time. "Green. So fucking green."
I wrap my hand around him, and the sound he makes is gratifying. He's hard and thick in my grip, the heat and weight of him in my palm unmistakable. When I lean down to trace my tongue along his length from base to tip, slow and deliberate, his hips jerk involuntarily.
"Christ," he breathes, and I feel the shudder that runs through his body. When I reach the head, I circle it with my tongue, tasting salt and musk and something uniquely him that makes heat pool between my thighs.
"Fuck," he breathes, and his hips lift slightly off the bed.
I take just the head into my mouth, sucking gently while my tongue works the sensitive underside, and the sound he makes is pure gratification. His hand fists in the sheets beside him, knuckles white with the effort of staying still.
My injured shoulder protests slightly as I adjust my angle, but the discomfort is minimal compared to the satisfaction of watching him come undone. I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, feeling him pulse against my tongue. The control he wears like armor is fracturing with every stroke of my mouth, every swirl of my tongue, and I love it.
I establish a rhythm—taking him deep until I feel him at the back of my throat, then pulling back slowly to tease the head with quick flicks of my tongue. My hand works what my mouth can't reach, twisting slightly on the upstroke in a way that makes his breath catch. Saliva makes everything slick and easy, and I use it to my advantage, adding just enough pressure to make him groan.
His hand comes to my hair, not forcing but threading through the strands with barely restrained need. "Just like that," he growls. "Fuck, Marissa, just like that."
I hollow my cheeks, increasing the suction, and the curse that falls from his lips is filthy and satisfying. I can feel him getting harder, thicker, his control slipping with every bob of my head.His hips start to move in counterpoint to my rhythm—small thrusts that he's clearly trying to restrain but can't quite manage.
I look up at him through my lashes, and the sight of him is perfect. Head thrown back, jaw clenched, chest heaving with ragged breaths. Completely undone by my mouth. I take him deeper in reward, breathing through my nose, letting him feel the back of my throat.
"Enough," he finally grits out, and there's steel beneath the word. "Anymore and this ends before I'm inside you."
