"You're killing me," he growled, but he didn't move to stop me. Just watched with that dark, hungry gaze, the muscles in his stomach clenching every time my lips grazed new skin. I kissed my way down his stomach, feeling each ridge of muscle tense and release under my mouth. His belt buckle clinked as my fingers worked it open.
"That's the plan." I got the belt open, then the button, then the zipper—each sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. I pushed his jeans down his hips, taking his boxer briefs with them. He lifted to help me, kicking them off, and then he was bare before me in the candlelight. All that muscle, all that power, the warm glow catching the definition of his hip bones, the thick muscles of his thighs, the dark trail of hair leading down to where his cock stood thick and hard against his stomach, flushed dark, the head already slick.
I wrapped my hand around him, and the feel of him made my mouth water—velvet-soft skin stretched tight over rigid heat, so thick my fingers barely met around him. A bead of moisture welled at the tip and I caught it with my thumb, spreading it in a slow circle that made his head fall back with a guttural groan, the cords of his neck straining, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
"Artemis—" My name came out strangled, barely recognizable, his hands gripping the blanket like he was holding himself to earth. I stroked him slowly, learning what made him break—a twist at the top that made his hips shift off the blanket, a firm squeeze at the base that pulled a sound from him that was almost pained.
"Want to taste you," I murmured, and lowered my head without waiting for permission. He cursed—a raw, guttural sound that bounced off the distillery walls—when my mouth closed around him. The taste of him bloomed across my tongue, salt and musk and the faint sweetness of whiskey that seemed to live in his skin. I took him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, working my tongue along the thick vein on the underside while my hand covered what my mouth couldn't reach. When I hummed around him, he bucked so hard I had to brace my free hand on his hip, feeling the muscle lock beneath my palm.
"Fuck—sweetheart—" His hand found the back of my head, not pushing, just holding, his fingers trembling against my scalp. His thighs were like iron on either side of me, locked and quaking with the effort of not thrusting into my mouth. "If you keep doing that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast."
I pulled off with a wet pop, grinning up at him, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "We've got all night."
"I want to be inside you when I come." He sat up, cupping my face in his hands, his palms rough and hot against my cheeks, his eyes wild and unfocused, his chest heaving. "Want to bondyou properly. Not like your heat. Want to look at you and know exactly what we're doing."
The raw need in his voice sent a pulse of heat straight to my core, and something deeper—a tenderness that made my eyes sting. "Then touch me." I took his wrist and guided his hand between my thighs, pressing his thick fingers against me through my underwear. "I want your hands on me."
"With pleasure," he rumbled, his hands finding the hem of my sundress, his calloused fingertips grazing the bare skin of my thighs and leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He pulled it over my head slowly, the cotton dragging across my skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. My bra followed—his thick fingers fumbling with the clasp for a moment before it gave, and something about that clumsy half-second made my chest squeeze. This man who could field-strip a rifle blindfolded, undone by a bra hook.
He paused there, just looking. His gaze moved over my breasts—over the dark peaks of my nipples already tightened to aching points—then down to my stomach, the flare of my hips, back up again. Not rushing. Taking me in like he was committing every detail to memory, his eyes moving like hands.
"Harper." I shifted under his scrutiny, resisting the urge to cover myself, heat creeping up my chest and into my cheeks. "You're staring." I crossed my arms loosely, not quite covering, just needing something to do with my hands.
"Can't help it." His voice was sandpaper and gravel. He reached out, tracing the curve of my breast with one calloused finger—just one, just barely touching, the rough pad of his fingertip dragging across skin that had never felt so sensitive. "You're so goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you."
His thumbs brushed over both nipples at once, and the calluses caught on the sensitive peaks in a way that made my breath stutter and my back arch. He did it again—circling,teasing, then rolled them between his thumb and forefinger with a firm, steady pressure that sent a bolt of heat straight down my spine and into my clit. I arched into his touch, wordless sounds spilling from my lips, my hands gripping his forearms just to have something to hold onto, feeling the muscles bunch and flex beneath his skin.
"So responsive," he murmured, lowering his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to the swell of my breast, his tongue tracing the curve, his stubble scraping against the soft underside in a way that left my skin tingling and flushed. "Love how you react to me. Love every sound you make."
He hooked his fingers in my underwear and dragged them down my legs, slow enough that I felt the elastic catch and release against every inch of skin. The cool air hit the wet heat between my thighs and I shivered, exposed and aching.
He pressed me back into the blankets, settling over me, the heat of his body hovering just above mine. Close enough to feel but not enough to satisfy. His mouth found my throat, teeth grazing’, tongue soothing the sting. His hands explored while he worked my neck—one palm rough against my breast, kneading, the other trailing feather-light down my ribs, counting each one, skipping over my stomach and tracing the crease where my thigh met my hip. Close. So close. But never where I needed him.
"Harper," I whined, my hips rolling up against nothing, seeking friction that wasn't there. My fingers dug into his shoulders, nails leaving crescents in the thick muscle. "Please."
"Please what?" His voice was dark velvet against my ear, his breath hot and damp, his lips brushing the shell of my ear before his teeth caught the lobe and tugged. "Tell me what you need."
"Touch me." I grabbed his wrist and shoved his hand between my thighs, pressing his thick fingers against my slick, swollen flesh. No more games. "Here. I need you here." My voicecracked on the last word, my hips tilting into his palm, desperate and shameless.
He groaned, his forehead dropping to my shoulder, his whole body shuddering against mine when he felt how wet I was. "Fuck, Artemis." His fingers slid through my folds, parting them, spreading the slick, and the wet sound it made in the quiet room was obscene. "You're dripping. All this for me?"
"Don't let it go to your head." The sass came out breathless, barely convincing, and he huffed a laugh against my neck that turned into a low groan when his fingers found my clit and started circling—slow, deliberate, pressing just hard enough to make my vision blur.
I cried out, my hips bucking up into his hand, and he pressed me back down with his other palm flat on my stomach, pinning me to the blanket while he worked me. His fingers knew exactly what they were doing—varying the pressure, the speed, reading every twitch of my body like he'd been studying me for years.
"That's it," he murmured against my collarbone, his lips dragging down toward my chest, his stubble leaving a trail of reddened skin. "Let me hear you."
His mouth closed over my nipple, and I arched into him with a gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough that he groaned around the sensitive flesh. His tongue circled the peak, flicked across the tip, then drew it between his lips with a suction that made my toes curl into the blanket. His fingers pressed inside me—one first, thick and calloused, stretching me in a way that made me gasp, then a second, scissoring gently, opening me up while his thumb kept working my clit in maddening circles.
He kissed and licked his way down my body—the hollow of my hip bones, the sensitive crease of my inner thigh, the soft skin behind my knee that I didn't even know was an erogenous zone until his tongue found it and made me jolt hard enoughto kick him in the shoulder. He laughed against my skin, the vibration buzzing through me, and pressed a kiss to my kneecap in apology before settling between my legs.
He hooked my thighs over his broad shoulders, his scruff rough against the sensitive inner skin, and paused there—close enough that I could feel his breath, warm and damp, ghosting over my swollen flesh. He just looked at me. The hunger in his expression—jaw tight, eyes dark, nostrils flaring as he breathed in the scent of me—made my stomach flip and slick pulse out of me in a hot rush.
His first lick was a broad, flat stroke from my entrance to my clit, gathering the slick on his tongue, and I cried out, my thighs clamping around his head on instinct. He groaned against me—a deep, guttural sound like a man who'd been starving and just tasted food—the vibration buzzing straight through my clit.
"Sweeter than anything I've ever put in a barrel," he growled, the words muffled, his lips brushing against my clit with every syllable. "Could get drunk on this alone."
He ate me with the same focus he brought to everything—methodical, thorough, devastatingly attentive. His tongue delved deep, lapping at my entrance, then dragged up to circle my clit with a precision that made me wonder if he'd mapped my nerve endings on a blueprint somewhere. When he sealed his lips around the swollen bundle and sucked while curling two thick fingers inside me—finding that spot on my front wall and rubbing in firm, rhythmic strokes—I shattered.
