Though he seems almost in pain from having to release the pearls, he does as I ask. His eyes become pools of hungry black when he unveils the rest of my body and uncovers the matching strand of white pearls hugging my rib cage.
As I turn back to face him, I nip at the bows at my wrists with my teeth. He leans back in his chair, cheekbones flushed, irises aglow and aimed at the swatches of silver fabric that cloak my erect nipples. When the silk bows unravel, sending my dress tumbling to the floor, his fingers close around the armrests.
“Instead of gripping your furniture, I think you should”—I circle his wrists—“gripme.”
Between rasping pants, he says, “If I do…I won’t stop.”
“I’m counting on it, Vizosh.” With little effort, I pry his fingers off the carved wood, carry them to my waist, and set them there. And then I let go, giving him back the control.
He holds still for so long I worry he will resist.
I’m wrong to worry.
40
ISLA
The Ice King explores every hill and dale on my body.
With his hands.
With his tongue.
With his teeth.
With his air-magic.
By the time he’s done playing, the string of pearls on my thong, which he insisted on leaving in place, are dripping from my multiple orgasms. It probably helps that my body responds to him like his most loyal soldier.
I swear that sometimes, all he needs to do to send me soaring over the edge is press his stare—yes,his stare—against my clit.
I grip the bedsheets as he toys with the soaked pearls while lavishing open-mouthed kisses on my nipples. When yet another orgasm detonates through me, and I scream his name, his lips curve with immodesty. One that makes my beating heart swell to such proportions I think it will burst right through my kiss-slickened chest.
As he unfurls to his full height, he molds the sides of my body with his palms from rib to knee.
For a full minute, I just lay there, a waste of limbs and heartbeats. I feel inebriated, drunk on the sensations he’s conjured beneath my skin but also inside my heart.
I haveneverfelt this way before. Granted, I don’t possess the most extensive sexual experience, but this cannot be a typical reaction, can it?
I finally pare my spine from the bed, then climb to my knees and snare his jaw in a kiss that is borderline violent. Though he’s shed his jacket, the rest of his clothes are still on. I make quick work of his shirt buttons and his trouser fastenings.
He doesn’t break the kiss as he kicks off his boots, and I roll his shirt down his toned arms. They get caught on his cufflinks. He punches them out of their button-holes. Soon, he presents me with his entirely unfettered body.
I splay my hands on his pecs and give him a little shove that quirks one of his eyebrows.
“You’ve seen every inch of me. I want to see every inch of you.” My gaze surfs down the trench of his abs and scattering of black hair that thickens around his engorged shaft.
“All of me, you say?” His tone is light, amused. “Yet you’re staring at very specific inches of my anatomy.”
A smile digs into my cheeks while a swallow digs into my throat.
“Turn.” I lick my lips. “I want to see my birthday present from all angles.”
He shakes his head but indulges me, rigid cock bobbing as he rotates just as slowly as he licked my pussy earlier. Just the memory coils heat low in my belly.
His back is sculpted, a work of art as enthralling as his front, packed full of fine muscles that jump as I drink him in. I never gave men’s asses much thought, even though I’ve seen my fair share in the Baths. I can say, with unwavering certainty, that the Ice King is in possession of a mighty fine backside.
Once he’s come full circle, I reach around him and palm his ass cheeks. The muscles contract.
