He keeps teasing. Feather-light. Maddening. Mouth moving to the hollow of my throat, teeth grazing my collarbone.
The worst part?
I love it.
I love the way he leaves me trembling. The way he makes me beg without ever making me say the words. My thighs are slick, skin flushed, breath coming in sharp gasps every time his fingers ghost over my clit.
He’s not even trying to get me off now.
He’s just… playing.
And I’m letting him.
His hand slides up my body, palm skimming my ribs before he cups my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple. It’s already hard, aching, and I arch into his touch, a broken sound slipping out of me.
“You’re evil,” I manage.
He smirks against my skin. “You love it.”
And I do.
I love the way he worships me. The way he makes me feel like the only thing in the world that matters. His mouth closes around my nipple, tongue swirling before he sucks hard, and I cry out, back arching off the bed.
Still, he doesn’t stop.
His hand drifts back down, fingers tracing the damp heat between my legs, not quite dipping inside, not quite giving me the pressure I need.
“Geoff, please—”
The word breaks into a moan as his thumb finally presses against my clit, circling slowly, deliberately.
His lips find mine again, kiss lazy, unhurried, like he’s not driving me completely out of my mind.
“What do you want, love?” he murmurs.
He knows. He just wants to hear it.
I should tease him back. Draw this out. Makehimbeg for once.
I can’t.
“I want you to fucking finish me,” I gasp, hips jerking up. “I want your mouth, I want your fingers—”
My voice breaks as his thumb presses harder, his fingers sliding inside me again, and I’m there. Right on the edge. Coiled tight.
He groans, forehead pressing against mine, breath coming faster.
“Fuck, Christa—”
His fingers curl, his thumb presses down, and I shatter. Heat and pleasure crashing through me, nails digging into his shoulders as I ride it out, voice raw with his name.
Even as I’m still trembling, still gasping, his touch slows. Gentles. He presses a kiss to my forehead, lips lingering, breath warm against my skin.
The moment hangs. Heavy. Sweet.
This isn’t just about the orgasm.
It’s about the way he looks at me. The way he sees me.
