He’s all over me. Consuming me.
It isn’t long until I’m panting, my lungs burning for air that I crave less than his kisses. Our lips break apart only out of necessity. Even then, he mouths a hot trail down my throat, counting me up in handfuls. He hasn’t called me “doll” in weeks—but that’s what I feel like between his palms.
My roots burn where his hand twists in blonde tendrils. My flush spreads to meet his teeth, grazing at my clavicle.
He inches lower, mouthing between the valley of my breasts.
Turns out, he’s quite the innovator. He works from the top down, dragging the neckline down my shoulder, leaving me exposed to his wandering mouth.
“Iosif,” I whimper.
His heavy palm kneads at my breast, pinching my nipple through lace. Rolling it between his fingers like a goddamn savant. Every piece of fabric is an impediment to his worship. His tongue laps at the hard bud once, twice, then suckles at me.
I lied. Oh, I lied, and his every blistering touch proves it. I do need—I’ve never needed so much.
My teeth catch on his earlobe. The silver of his earring leaves its cool, metallic tang on my tongue. I’ve wanted to do that for days. For weeks now.
“Yes,” I gasp, mindlessly stroking his cheek.
His stubble scratches me.
“Fuck,” he exhales, pressing my body into the over door. I can feel the hard length of him against my belly. It turns my insides molten. “Do you taste this good all over?”
A shudder wracks through my body.
That’s all it takes for his hand to wrench up the hem of my dress. His touch is feverish against the inside of my thigh. And there are those calluses, rough against my skin, yet so reverent in his touch.
I already know I’m wet. But he moans about it as if the fact torments him. “I’ve thought about this,” he confesses, shoving my sensible cotton panties out of his way.
No one has ever touched me like this.
“Oh—Oh, God,” I pant, thighs parting to make room for him.
Before I know it, he has me hitched up around his waist. Then I’m on my back, on the steel chef’s table, where the sandwiches are assembled. And I don’t care. God, I don’t give a shit. Nothing matters but this—but where his touch returns,spreading me open and smearing my arousal, obscene and impossible to deny.
His hands coax my knees apart. He bends his head between them, his tongue dragging a line down my pubic bone to—
I don’t mean to stiffen. I don’t. It’s just that no one has ever...
I fight the urge to cover myself.
Shaking, I reach for Iosif. But it’s not use. He’s already gone, off of me and across the room. “Fuck,” he heaves. “Fuck.Janella, I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”
His eyes are crazed, his hands frenzied as they wreak havoc through his hair. Moments ago, they were in mine. Their absence aches everywhere.
“I can’t believe I did that to you.” He keeps shaking his head.
It’s the wretched disgust all over his face that wounds me most.
I repeat, “Tome? That waswithme, Iosif.”
The anger that bubbles up within me is unfamiliar, and it is righteous, indignant. I slip off the table and erupt, ripping at the belt around me and shoving my dress the rest of the way off my body.
“Don’t you dare tell me you don’t want me.” I glare at him, gaze dripping pointedly down his body to stop at his erection, so obvious through his jeans. His eyes zealously pore over my bared skin over and over. “I can see that you do. And I’m saying yes. I’masking.What the hell happened to you getting me on my knees? Making me beg?”
I’m playing dirty. I know it.
It works.
