I’m at risk of him stopping.
And I really don’t want him to stop.
I slap my hand back against the wall.
Impatience claws through me in a guttural groan.
But it’s enough.
He turns his mouth back to the barrier of my silk knickers.
The dance of his tongue is a performance, the graze of his lips is timed, it’s practiced.
He’s done this before.
Perfected it as a skill over time, but there’s nothing passionless about it. Not with the heat of his breaths against me, the desperation of his hands clutching at my ass.
It takes everything,everything, in me to not grind against him, to chase my denied pleasure on his tongue.
My head lolls back against the wall.
My nails dig into the wainscotting.
And I climb this almost pleasure he torments me with.
But he hears my prayers, he feels the need burning in me—and he gives into me.
The hand abandons the meat of my hip. It’s gone for the shortest of moments before it’s grabbing at the side of my pelvis, where my skin is too sensitive, and so I jerk against the sudden touch.
The cut of his fingernails pierces a wince through me, swallowed by the blackout.
The pressure of my silk underwear is loosened, and it takes me a moment, a second too long, to realise he’s just ripped them right off of me.
An obstruction.
Something in his way.
I didn’t ever think Eric had this side of him.
This determination, the need for me.
Before I can think on it a beat longer, the silk of the underwear slips down onto the ankle of my still-standing leg—and his fingers have found my slit.
There’s no patience in him.
Not before a finger has slipped inside of me.
And the sensation of his mouth on me is no longer blocked by silk.
I feel it.
I feel everything.
The moan that ribbons from me is drawn-out.
I melt against him, the roll and flick of his tongue, the curl of his finger inside of me, the feel of his hand pressing into the meat of my thigh.
I can’t help it, I can’t stop it.
