His kiss is unkind. He grazes his bite over my core, like he’s prompting me…
I realise with a choppy exhale.
He’s not hesitating.
He’s not pausing.
He’s asking permission to continue.
A smile slinks onto my lips.
I hike my leg to drape over his shoulder, like a silk ribbon.
That’s all the permission he needs.
His hand slides up my thigh, strong fingers gripping the soft curve of my backside—like he’s locking me in place. Trapping me between his mouth and the wall.
The movement is decisive, possessive.
It sends flurries through me.
His fingertips press into my skin, leaving promises of bruises to come later—
His mouth finds me.
A breath rushes from my lips the instant the wet warmth latches onto me.
The silk of my underwear is quick to dampen.
And not even the flimsy shield of fabric dulls the sensations.
Soft, full lips drag over my tingling flesh. The drag of his tongue follows along my slit, a painfully slow journey to the tingling bud—
Breath captured in my chest, I wait for the kiss, the lick, the touch.
But he is motionless and I am blind.
Something about it thrills me.
The darkness, the secrecy, that sheer fucking desperation in his painful grip.
No doubt about it, there will be a scattering of fingertip bruises all over my backside tomorrow.
And I don’t give a damn about that.
Not as he does it.
His tongue rolls around my bud, and a breath utters from my parted lips.
Something hurried rushes through me.
I reach down for him, not knowing where to grab, not in the dark, not in my need.
But before I can find anything to hold onto, his cheek turns to my core, and he nips me right on the inner thigh.
I stiffen.
The warning is clear.
