His hands went to my waist, thumbs hooking into the waistband of my jeans and panties together. He tugged them down just far enough to bare me to the tops of my thighs—jeans and lace bunched there like shackles he’d chosen not to remove yet.
I was exposed.
Open.
His gaze dropped. Dark. Hungry.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping for a man who hasn’t even kissed you yet.”
My face flamed.
He dragged one finger through my folds—slow, collecting wetness, never quite giving pressure where I needed it most. When he reached my clit again, he circled once, twice—then pinched gently.
I cried out, hips jerking.
He pinned me to the table with one hand flat on my lower stomach. “Still.”
I tried. God, I tried.
He leaned down, mouth hovering over mine—close enough I could taste his breath, but not touching.
“Beg me to taste you,” he said.
The words scraped out of me. “Please … taste me.”
His eyes flared.
Then he dropped to one knee.
My heart stopped.
He hooked my knees over his shoulders—jeans still tangled at mid-thigh, restricting how wide I could spread. The position left me helplessly open, completely at his mercy.
He looked up the length of my body, eyes locked on mine.
“You don’t come until I say.”
I nodded frantically.
His mouth descended.
Not gentle.
Not tentative.
He licked once—long, flat, from entrance to clit—then sealed his lips around the swollen bud and sucked.
I arched off the table with a broken moan.
He didn’t relent.
He worked me with devastating patience—alternating between slow, dragging licks and sharp, focused suction. Every time my hips tried to chase, he pressed me down harder with that iron hand on my stomach.
When my thighs began to shake uncontrollably, when my breathing turned into ragged sobs, when I was right there—right on the razor’s edge—he pulled back.
Completely.
Cool air hit wet, swollen flesh.
