Then his mouth finds me, and I shatter.
The first touch of his lips is gentle and exploratory. A question. My hips buck involuntarily, and his hands tighten, holding me steady as his tongue traces a slow, devastating path through my center. The sensation is overwhelming, both too much and not nearly enough all at once.
"Oh god," I breathe, fingers releasing the sheets to tangle in his hair instead. "Breaker, I—"
I don't know what I'm trying to say. Don't know if there are words for what he's doing to me, for the way his tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles that make my vision blur at the edges. He finds the bundle of nerves at my apex and focuses there, alternating between featherlight flicks and steady pressure that has me writhing beneath him.
“Like that. But harder, faster,” I murmur.
And he listens.
His groan vibrates against my most sensitive flesh, and the sound he makes — like I'm the sweetest thing he's ever tasted — sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through me. One of his hands leaves my hip, and then his fingers are there too, sliding through slick heat, pressing inside me with a gentleness that makes my heart crack open.
"You taste incredible," he murmurs against me, the words barely audible but burning into my skin nonetheless.
The combination of his mouth and his fingers working in tandem is too much. Pleasure builds at the base of my spine, gathering like a storm about to break. My thighs clamp around his head, heels digging into his back, and I couldn't let him go now even if I wanted to.
I don't want to. I never want to.
"Breaker," I gasp, and this time his name comes out like a warning. "I'm going to—"
"I know," he says, and the confidence in his voice, the absolute certainty that he knows exactly what he's doing to me, pushes me closer to the edge. "Let go, Sparrow. I've got you."
His tongue flattens against me, pressing firm, and his fingers curl inside me, finding a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and I let go of everything with a shaking, quaking cry.
The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, obliterating everything in its path. My body arches off the bed, muscles clenching, release pouring through me in wave after wave ofblinding pleasure. I cry out — his name, maybe, or just a sound without meaning — and he doesn't stop. His mouth stays on me, gentle but persistent, drawing out every tremor until I'm boneless and gasping, tears streaming down my temples into my hair.
For a long moment, I just float. Suspended in the aftermath, my body humming with satisfaction, my mind blissfully, blessedly empty of everything except the feeling of being thoroughly, completely undone.
Then awareness seeps back in. The cool air on my sweat-dampened skin; the rough scrape of his stubble against my inner thigh; the sound of his breathing, ragged and uneven, matching my own.
All I can do is reach for him.
My hands find his face, cupping his jaw, pulling him up toward me. He comes willingly, crawling over my body, and when his mouth meets mine, I taste myself on his lips — salt and musk and something sweeter underneath.
I lick across his lower lip, chasing the flavor, and he groans into my mouth.
"I love that," I whisper against him, my voice wrecked and honest. "Tasting myself on you."
His whole body shudders. I feel it everywhere we're pressed together — chest to chest, hip to hip, his hardness straining against the rough denim of his jeans and pressing into my thigh like a promise.
The power of it hits me all at once. This man — this dangerous, beautiful, broken man — is trembling because of me. Because of my words. Because of what we're doing together.
Something shifts inside me. The fear that's lived in my bones for so long doesn't disappear, but it recedes, making room for something else. Something that feels like confidence. Like safety. Like finally, finally being in control of my pleasure.
I push against his chest, and he pulls back immediately, concern flickering across his features. But I'm already moving, reversing our positions, urging him onto his back with hands that don't shake anymore.
"Riley?" His voice is rough, questioning.
I straddle his thighs and look down at him — this scarred, tattooed warrior spread out beneath me like an offering. His chest heaves with each breath, his hands fisting in the sheets the same way mine did moments ago. The evidence of his arousal strains against his jeans, and the sight of it sends a fresh pulse of heat through my core.
I feel powerful. Desired. Safe enough to want.
My fingers find his belt buckle, and I hold his gaze as I work it open. "Now," I say, my voice steady and sure in a way it hasn't been in years, "lie back and let me take care of you."
His breath hitches as I work the leather free, then the button, then the zipper. Each sound is loud in the quiet room — metal teeth parting, fabric rustling, his ragged exhale as I finally free him from the confines of his jeans.
He's thick and hard and straining toward me, and the sight of him makes my mouth water.
