I reach up on my tiptoes, wanting his mouth again, but he stops me with a firm grip on my head.
My lips rest an inch from his.
“Take,” I say.
“Then turn around.”
It’s a command, but oh, how he’s restraining his power.
I sense his immense self-control in the tension within his glistening shoulders, the flex of his fingers at the back of my head, and the way his lips press together in an unforgiving line.
Lips I want to kiss.
I hold his gaze until the very last moment as I do what he asks, turning in the circle of his arms while his hands fall away from me.
For a heartbeat, he isn’t touching me, and the distance between us suddenly feels like falling into an abyss; a shockingly cold sensation that nearly makes me scream.
Before any sound can leave my lips, he pulls me against him, my back to his front.
I groan with relief at the contact, my breathing resuming, even though it’s ragged.
One of his hands strokes my lower stomach while his other cups my breast. Slow, swirling strokes that increase the wetness between my upper thighs.
“I’m going to lay you across the edge of that table and I’m going to finger-fuck you now,” he growls into my ear, tugging on my earlobe softly with his teeth. “If you want this, say so. If you don’t, I won’t.”
Oh, I do.
But retaining control means making him wait three long seconds for my response.
Not that he seems to mind.
His fingers slip from my stomach toward the top of my clit, stroking across the edge of the folds. His lips graze my neck, his tongue licking at the water droplets that I’m surprised defied his power and still cling to the nape of my neck.
“Veda?” His mouth nudges at my skin.
The finger he continues to rest at the top of my clit—theunmovingfinger—is driving me crazy with need.
My voice is hoarse. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“I want you to lay me across the edge of this table.”
“And then what?”
I groan.
I nearly say,“Fuck me,”but I manage to make the distinction. “Fingers,” I say. “But not more than two.”
“I only need one,” he whispers at my ear before he pulls me down to my knees and bends me forward.
I stretch my arms out across the table, relaxing into his hands as they sweep my hair to one side and stroke down my back, across my backside, and the backs of my thighs, easing all my muscles. Firm strokes that travel back up to my neck as his hips press into the back of mine, the material of his underpants a constant boundary between us.
He strokes my back and hips and thighs for so long that I’m rocking against him with need by the time he slips a finger inside me.
With just one finger, it feels as if he fills me completely.
I moan with relief as he pulls me back against his hip, his finger sliding deep within me while I brace my upper body by planting my hands on the table.
