My back arched instinctively, pressing myself more fully into his mouth as pleasure-pain spiraled through me. One large hand came up to cup my other breast, fingers rolling and pinching the nipple with the perfect amount of pressure.
"Rafe," I gasped, clutching at his shoulders for support as my knees threatened to give out. "Oh Rafe, that feels—"
"You’re so fucking beautiful, Cecelia," he murmured, switching his attention to my other breast. His teeth scraped over my nipple, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. I was already wet again, already aching for him despite having just gotten myself off minutes before. The way he touched me, the intensity in his eyes, the barely restrained violence of his need, it was intoxicating.
Without warning, he spun us around and marched me backward until my calves hit the couch. He pushed me down onto the leather, and I sank onto it with a soft "oof" of surprise. Before I could gather my thoughts, he knelt between my legs and pushed my thighs apart with a deliberate slowness that made my breath catch.
"Rafe, what are you—"
"Giving myself what I've been dreaming about all morning." His voice was a low rumble that I felt more than heard. His gaze was fixed between my legs. "Do you have any idea how badly I want to taste you?"
My response died in my throat as he lowered his head without further preamble, his mouth hot and insistent against my pussy. I cried out, back arching off the couch at the first swipe of his tongue. He growled his approval and the vibration sent fresh waves of pleasure racing through me.
There was nothing gentle about the way he devoured me. His tongue worked with determined purpose, licking broadstripes from my entrance to my clit before focusing on that sensitive spot with relentless attention. Hands gripping my thighs, he kept me spread wide for his assault while his thumbs occasionally slid through my wetness to tease at my entrance.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured against my flesh, the words themselves a caress that made me shudder. "So wet for me. So fucking perfect."
I writhed beneath him, hands fisting in his hair, not sure if I was trying to pull him closer or push him away from the overwhelming sensation. He responded by digging his fingers into my thighs hard enough to leave marks and sucking my clit between his lips with a renewed focus that had me seeing stars.
When he slid two fingers inside me and curved them just right, I nearly came off the couch entirely. I felt the pressure building rapidly, that familiar tightening low in my belly signaling an approaching orgasm. But something made me want to prolong this moment, to stay suspended in this exquisite pleasure for as long as possible. I tried to control my breathing, to focus on anything but the coiling heat threatening to explode through me.
Rafe wasn't having it. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, dark with a predatory hunger that made my heart skip. He must have sensed my restraint because his fingers curled more firmly inside me, pressing hard against my g-spot as his tongue flattened against my clit.
"Don't you dare hold back from me," he growled, the words vibrating against my sensitive skin. "Not after what you just put me through."
Still fighting the inevitable, I whimpered. "I just… I don't want it to end yet."
His response was to gently but firmly sink his teeth into my clit, just enough pressure to send a shock of pleasure-pain rocketing through my system. "Give it to me," he demanded. "I've fucking earned it."
That did it. The combination of his words, his teeth, his fingers still working inside me—it shattered whatever fragile control I'd been clinging to. Pleasure exploded through my system in waves that stole my breath and my voice. My body convulsed around his fingers, thighs trembling against his shoulders as he continued licking and sucking, drawing out every last aftershock until I was a boneless, quivering mess on the couch.
"That's it," he murmured, pressing gentle kisses to my inner thighs as I floated in the aftermath. "So fucking beautiful when you come for me."
Through the haze of pleasure, I became aware of his weight shifting, of his warmth pulling away. I forced my heavy eyelids open to see him rising to his full height and tower over me with an expression that was equal parts satisfaction and hunger. His white dress shirt was wrinkled, his hair a mess from my fingers.
As I watched, still catching my breath, his hands moved to his belt buckle.
"I'm not done with you yet," he said, eyes never leaving my face as his fingers worked the leather free. "Not even close."
Chapter 29
Rafe
Cecelia stood from the couch, her naked body glowing in the midday light streaming through the penthouse windows. Her eyes—those fucking devastating green eyes—never left mine as her fingers moved to my belt, taking over where I'd left off. I fought to control my breathing as she slid the leather free from its loops with a deliberate slowness that made my already painful erection throb against my zipper. This beautiful, maddening woman was going to be the death of me, and I couldn't bring myself to care.
“My turn,” she whispered, her voice still raspy from her earlier cries. She tossed my belt aside then moved to the buttons of my shirt.
I stood perfectly still, barely breathing as her fingers worked their way down my chest, exposing more skin with each button she freed. When she reached the last one, she pushed the fabric off my shoulders and slid it down my arms before dropping to the floor beside my discarded belt.
Her breath caught as she took in my tattoo sleeve, her fingertips hovering just above the inked skin as if askingpermission to touch. I nodded once, and she placed her palm flat against my bicep where the fallen angel's broken wing splintered into drifting feathers.
“You never let me see these properly,” she murmured, tracing the outline of the wing with a feather-light touch that sent shivers racing down my spine. Her fingers trailed lower, following the path of the tattoo down to my forearm where the pocket watch's gears spilled toward my wrist. “They're incredible.”
There was something in her voice—a reverence, an appreciation that seemed to go beyond mere physical attraction. She circled around me, her hands never leaving my skin as she explored the intricate artwork that decorated my left side. When she reached the sheet music ghosting across my shoulder, her touch became even lighter, as if she could feel the notes beneath her fingertips.
“Did it hurt?” she asked, pressing a kiss to the fractured Roman numeral clock spreading across my chest.
I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure as her lips moved against my skin. “Yes,” I admitted. “But that was the point.”
