Out of instinct, I grab the skirt with one hand, bundling the silk over my ribs. He smirks.
My entire body flushes. Still, I can’t look away.
His stare pins me in place, searing through my soul and heating my exposed body. The urge to press my thighs together nearly overwhelms me.
But his hands hold them in place, locking them open.
He leans in, never once breaking eye contact, and presses his mouth to my stomach. With soft lips and hard intent, he brands me, trailing heat that spirals and spools.
Twitches spark off beneath my skin. Now I understand the phrase “butterflies in your stomach.”
The line of kisses leaves tiny bits of moisture on my skin as he sinks lower on the couch, lower on my body.
My head goes light. My heart stutters.
I’m helpless. And I yearn for more.
With his relentless palms on my hips, he steers me exactly where he wants me. Then he cups the back of my knee, lifting and setting my foot on the couch beside him. He does the same with the other leg so I’m standing on the couch, straddling him, struggling to keep my skirt up and not tumble backward and bust my ass on the ugly carpet.
I’m already off-balance when his tongue finds my clit. The vulnerability frightens a good part of me.
The rest?Ravenous.
Before I have a chance to react, he sucks without hesitation.
When his tongue seeks out that hypersensitive place and zeroes in like a weapon, my whole universe contracts to white, blinding sensation.
I cry out before I can stop myself, the sound ragged and raw in my own ears. My free hand scrabbles at him. His shoulders, his hair…desperate for an anchor as the pleasure bowls me over.
There’s a violence to his movements. The relentless, torturous euphoria leaves me reeling, shuddering, helpless. His lips and tongue work my clit in rotation, sharp and intense, then soothing and hot.
And thenhis hands.
They roam over my legs, my ass, up my hips. Massaging, caressing, squeezing. Keeping me unsteady and uncertain of his next action.
I can’t move unless he lets me. Can’t breathe until he relents on the mind-wiping torment of my clit. Bracing against him isn’t even an option since he continually shifts and jostles the couch cushion under my feet. All I can do is grab the wall and clutch my skirt, only halfway aware of my wobbling knees.
He directs that same effortless lethality he used on those men in the alley on me, dissecting me down to blood and bone and nerve.
Showing me exactly who writes the rules here. Who’s in charge.
I love every moment.
Every second, blood rushes everywhere but my head, leaving me dizzy. This is nothing like the kiss—two kisses—we shared before.
This ismore.
Claim. Ownership. Unerring control.
Distantly, I wonder why I’m allowing this. Why he even wants to and what the answers say about us both.
A particularly clever flick of his tongue banishes the questions to a spiraling abyss.
He pushes me closer and closer to the breaking point. No mercy. No gentleness. My body arches, and my elbows slam into the wall. I’m straining for the release he keeps just out of reach.
And then, at the last possible second, he stops. He removes his mouth and leaves me trembling, the absence of him as sharp as a slap.
I whimper, lost and desperate, the noise humiliatingly loud.
