“Should I stop?” he asks.
“Stopping would be the sensible thing to avoid being a cliché,” I manage to get out.
His eyes are deep and dark. “That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” I breathe. “Don’t stop.”
His mouth finds mine.
Oh fuck, it’s just as good as last night. Better, maybe, because this time I know what his mouth can do and my body is already ahead of me, already leaning in, already greedy for it. There’s no fumbling, no hesitation, just heat and the slide of his tongue against mine and his hand gripping my hip like he already knows exactly how I fit against him.
We end up against the wall, Leo’s body pressed against mine in a way that takes most of my weight off my bad ankle—which is good because I’d forgotten the ankle existed entirely. My shirt is somewhere on the floor, his onesie abandoned in a pink puddle at his feet.
“I spent the whole party thinking about this,” he growls. “Every time you made me do something ridiculous, I was imagining what I’d do to you after.”
“Revenge fantasies during children’s entertainment. Very healthy,” I gasp as he kisses my neck.
“You have no idea.” His mouth finds the spot behind my ear that makes me shudder. “Every time you made me hop, I thought about making you beg.”
“That’s—” I lose my train of thought when his hand slides down my stomach. “That’s very inappropriate.”
“You made me whinny, Archie.” He bites my earlobe. “You brought this on yourself.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. There’s a smirk playing at his lips.
“Sparkle says, get on your knees,” he rasps.
I choke on a laugh. “You did not just?—”
“I did.” His eyes are dark, challenging.
“That’s a terrible use of Sparkle Says.”
“And yet.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “You’re thinking about it.”
I am. God help me, I am.
“Sparkle’s going to need to say please,” I manage.
Something flickers in his eyes. Heat. Want. A hint of vulnerability beneath the confidence.
“Please,” he says softly.
I hold his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, I sink to my knees.
“For the record,” I say, looking up at him, “Sparkle is a terrible Dom name.”
He chuckles, stroking down the side of my face, and the tenderness of the gesture catches me off guard. It’s at odds with the filthy thing I’m about to do. With everything about this situation.
For a second, I just lean into his palm, feeling the warmth of his hand, staring up at him.
He’s gazing down at me, those dark eyes full of heat but also something else. Something that makes me feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that I’m on my knees.
Shit.
This is supposed to be fun and hot, not intimate.
Even worse is the fact that, for an insane moment, I almost turn my head and press my lips to his palm. Not to be seductive or as any part of the game. Just because I want to, in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how he’s looking at me right now.
