I gasped.
The ice followed, gliding slowly down the center of my chest, from the hollow of my throat to the valley between my breasts. Each inch burned and froze all at once, every nerve alight.
“This is sensory play.” His voice was a dark hum that brushed over my skin. “Hot, cold, gentle, or forceful. All designed to make you shiver. To make you ache.”
He followed the path the cube had taken, chasing cold with fire—his tongue tracing the rivulets of meltwater as if he meant to claim every drop. The contrast sent a tremor through me. I arched involuntarily, a cry escaping before I could stop it.
The ice found my breast, tracing the outskirts of my nipple. A single deliberate circle, then another—until the bud hardened, straining, almost painful in its anticipation. A sharp inhale caught in my throat as his mouth followed, lips closing around me, pulling hard, bringing me to the edge of pain. He moved to the other side without reprieve—cold, then his scorching tongue—until both peaks ached and I couldn’t tell which sensation owned me.
“I could do this for hours.” The cube traced lazy circles around my navel. “Push you right to the edge. Keep you trembling. Keep you begging.”
I shuddered, muscles tightening beneath his touch.
“You’re so responsive.” His tone was a caress of pride. “Every little touch… look at what it does to you.”
I couldn’t see.
Not with the blindfold.
But I could feel. Everything.
Every shift of air. Every brush of his breath. Every heartbeat between us.
The cube drifted lower, its chill a warning before the touch even came. My thighs tensed on instinct.
“Spread your legs for me, Emma.”
His tone wasn’t command so much as invocation, and I obeyed, blood roaring in my ears as I opened for him.
“God,” he whispered. “Look at you.”
Reverence. Hunger. Wonder. All tangled in his voice as though he were staring at a masterpiece that might vanish if he blinked.
Flush rushed to my face. My heart tripped over itself.
The cube moved again, sliding inward, closer and closer to the apex of my thighs.
“You have no idea,” he breathed, rough and ragged, “how many times I’ve dreamt of this.” His mouth was close enough that each word brushed my skin. “Laid out. Blindfolded. Soaked in want.”
His words echoed through me, a spark catching tinder. My mind went hazy, thought dissolving into sensation—surrender and trust and something dangerously close to joy.
His mouth descended on me, one long, broad, measured stroke parting me. I screamed as he groaned against me, lapping up the wetness he found there, the sound vibrating through my core.
Then I felt it again, the chill of melting ice, trailing along my inner thigh so tantalizingly close to the aching need between my legs. My hips twitched, desperate to close, but his hand splayed wide against my thigh. A warning.
The ice crested over the top of my mound, teasing me, before finally brushing directly over the swollen bud.
I cried out.
My arms strained against the belt, back arching off the bed as if I could escape the sensation—but there was nowhere to go. Only him. Only this.
He pressed it there again, letting me burn, letting me scream, letting me fight, before reprieve came by way of the scorching pressure of his tongue.
Deliberate, firm licks at first. Then his lips closed around me, sucking me into his mouth while his fingers slipped lower, spreading me open. He dragged the ice in long, cold strokes along the inside of me, the sharp sting unrelenting.
I turned ragged, body quaking under his mouth. The blindfold made every touch sharper. Too sharp—I was going to go insane if this continued, if I wasn’t able to—
“Damien,” I gasped.
