“Isadora.” His voice is barely recognizable. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Then his mouth is on me, and I stop thinking entirely. His tongue traces patterns I can’t follow, finding every sensitive spot, every nerve ending. My hands fist in his hair, and I’m making sounds I’ve never made before—broken, desperate sounds that I should be embarrassed by but can’t bring myself to care about.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against me. “Let me hear you.”
He adds a finger, sliding inside me with torturous slowness, and my back arches off the couch.
“Mal—”
“You’re so wet.” Another finger joins the first, stretching me deliciously. “So ready. Have you been thinking about this?”
“Yes—”
“How long?”
“Weeks—” I gasp as he curls his fingers. “Since the first time we—oh?—”
“Since the first time we what?”
“Danced.” I can barely form words. “Every time you touched me, I?—”
“You what?”
“I imagined this. You. Doing—” My thoughts scatter as his tongue finds that perfect spot again. “Doing that.”
His answering groan vibrates through me, and I’m climbing, climbing, reaching for something just out of grasp?—
“Come for me,” he says. “I want to feel you.”
I shatter. The orgasm hits me like a wave, rolling through my body in pulses of white-hot pleasure. I hear myself cry out, and his hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he works me through it. When I finally come back to myself, gasping and trembling, he’s watching me with an expression that makes my heart flip.
“Beautiful,” he says again. “So fucking beautiful.”
I reach for him, pulling him up my body, and kiss him deeply. I can taste myself on his lips—strange and intimate and unbearably erotic.
“Your turn,” I murmur.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.”
My hands go to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, and he helps me—pushing his jeans down just enough, and then he’s in my hand, hot and hard and huge?—
“Oh.” I look up at him. “That’s...”
“Too much?”
“No.” I wrap my fingers around him, marveling at the weight, the heat. “Just... impressive.”
He laughs, but it turns into a groan as I stroke him. “Careful. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks too.”
“Really?”
“Every night.” His hips rock into my hand. “Every time I close my eyes. You have no idea what you do to me.”
I stroke him again, watching his face and the way his jaw clenches and his breath catches.
“Show me,” I whisper.
