“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
My hands leave his chest to reach for the buttons of my jeans. “Fine.”
I shove the denim down my hips, and Evan's eyes track the movement like I'm the only thing in the world worth watching. His hands find my waist again, thumbs hooking into the waistband of my underwear, and he drops to his knees in one smooth motion that makes my breath catch.
He looks up at me, eyes dark and hungry. "You sure about this?"
I thread my fingers through his hair and tug, not gentle. "Do I look unsure?"
His mouth curves into something wicked. "No, ma'am."
"Stop calling me that."
"Can't," he says, and then his mouth is on my hip, kissing a path that makes my legs shake. "It's too much fun watching you get all worked up."
I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his fun, but then his teeth graze the inside of my thigh and every coherent thought evaporates. My head hits the door with a soft thunk, and I feel him smile against my skin.
"Evan," I manage, and it comes out breathless, needy, completely undone.
"Right here," he murmurs, and then his hands are sliding my underwear down, and I'm stepping out of them, and his mouth is…
"Oh, fuck," I gasp, fingers tightening in his hair.
He takes his time. Deliberate. Focused. Like he's got all night and plans to use every second to take me apart piece by piece. His tongue traces patterns that make my spine arch, my hips roll, my breath come in short, desperate bursts.
"You taste so good," he says against me, and the vibration of his voice sends a shudder through my whole body.
I can't respond. Can't think. Can only feel the steady, relentless pressure building in my core, climbing higher with every stroke of his tongue, every press of his fingers. My thighs start to shake, and he holds me steady, hands gripping my hips like he knows exactly how close I am to falling apart.
"Let go," he says, and it's a command, not a request.
So I do.
The orgasm rips through me like lightning, white-hot and devastating, and I bite down on my fist to keep from screaming. Evan works me through it, gentle now, coaxing out every tremor until I'm boneless and gasping and trying to remember how my legs work.
He stands slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on mine. "Bed. Now."
I nod, because words are beyond me, and let him guide me to the mattress. My shirt comes off. My bra follows. And then I'm pulling his shirt over his head, running my hands over the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle that flex under my touch.
"You're staring," he says.
"I'm appreciating," I correct. “I want to look over what I’m about to ride before I hop on it.”
I kiss him, taste myself on his lips, then push him back onto his bed. He goes willingly, eyes locked on mine like he's daring me to follow through. His hands find my waist as I climb over him, straddling his hips, and the heat of him through his sweats makes my breath hitch.
“Are you going to just sit there?” he says, echoing my words from before.
I lean down until my mouth is an inch from his. "I'm going to do whatever the hell I want."
His grin is wicked. "Good."
I kiss him hard, grinding my hips down, and the sound he makes is raw and desperate and everything I need to hear right now. My hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly, and I feel the way his muscles jump under my touch. The way his breath catches. The way his grip on my waist tightens as if he's fighting not to flip me over and take control.
"Molly," he breathes against my mouth. “Oh, fuck, Molly.”
"What?"
