“Crawl to me.”
This time, the command comes out more self-assured.
If Cupid is turned off by this request, he hides it well. He simply tilts his head the slightest bit and smirks before getting on all fours and slinking toward me. My gaze flits over the shape of his shoulders and takes in how his arm muscles shift as he moves toward me.
He pauses at the foot of the bed and stays crouched, as imposing as a mountain lion, waiting. Ready to pounce—but only at my bidding.
Now what? I didn’t really plan this far ahead. My face heats, and I can feel the creeping blush of embarrassment taking over.
I’m overwhelmed. Out of my depth. Just considering giving up this charade when Cupid says, “Let go, Love. Take what you need.”
His eyes hold mine, telling me it’s okay, to keep going.
I clear my throat. “Did I say you could speak?”
Cupid smiles, then winks at me. “No,” he says.
“That’s right,” I reply, slipping back into the role-play.
“Kneel.” I point to the foot of the bed. “Right here. And put your hands behind your back.”
He does as he’s told immediately. I can feel myself growing hotter, more aroused, as I watch him follow my demands. Cupid is clearly experiencing the same thing. I see his length, thick and fully erect, twitch when I hike up my skirt and shimmy out of my lacy underwear.
“Maybe this will keep you quiet,” I say.
With one hand, I grab the back of Cupid’s neck and sink my fingernails into his skin. Just hard enough to sting a bit. With a tug, I pull at his hair, forcing his head back at an angle, and then bring my other hand—the one holding the ball of thin red fabric—to his lips. I push my panties into his mouth.
He grunts. I look down just in time to see his cock pulse again.
Okay, this might be something.
With Cupid’s head still pulled back, I shift forward and lick the flat of my tongue from the base of his throat to the underside of his chin, slowly enough to feel the movement of his throat as he swallows.
“Mm,” I murmur, nibbling my way back down his throat. “I knew you’d tastegood.”
I scratch the nail of my index finger across his clavicle, down the middle of his chest. “I wonder ifallof you tastes this good.” My finger pauses at the base of his shaft, circling the short, dark hairs there, barely making contact.
“Would you like me to taste all of you, Cupid?”
He lets out a muffled “mmph” and seems to vibrate under my attention.
“I think,” I say, wrapping my hand lightly around his length, “that meant yes.”
With one hand to his chest, I shove Cupid back into the center of the bed. He bounces once, then settles like a star on top of the lush covers. I climb over him and straddle his torso. His eyes are twin blazes as he watches my every move. Then I set out to do exactly what I said I would do: I start tasting him. Every inch.
I pull his fingers into my mouth, one at a time, and suck. I bite at his wrists, the delicate skin inside his elbow, the tender flesh at the backs of his biceps. My tongue runs over his chest, teeth nibbling at each nipple before lavishing it with the warmth of my mouth. I move deliberately, methodically from body part to body part—touching every part of him but his hard cock.
Cupid writhes as I sink my teeth into the hard muscle of his thighs, burrow my nails against his ass and rake them to the tops of his knees. I feel his body react as my hair tickles his sensitive, pebbled skin. And when I pinch the arch of his feet between my front teeth, I swear he moans my name, muted only by the panties still trapped in his mouth.
I feel as if I’m on cloud nine as I control Cupid’s pleasure in this moment. I’m intoxicated with it, high on the knowledge that I am having this effect on him.
“You like it, don’t you?” I say, nearly breathless. “A god submitting to a mortal. I guess I’m your goddess now.”
“Mmphh hmmm,” is all I hear, and I chuckle. Who knew I had this in me? And that Cupid would be game for this, exactly what I’ve been looking for.
My body is on fire. My skin is prickling with a new kind of desire—one I’ve never felt before. Not to be possessed by a man, but to possess a man so fully that all he’s thinking about isme.
Rather than ignore that impulse, I lean into it.
