“Would he take care of you?Reallytake care of you?”
“Dane—”
“Answer me, Charlotte. Would he take care of you? Make you come?”
“I don’t—please?—”
“Please what?”
“Touch me.”
“Where? Here?”
“Yes.”
His fingers brush the top of my slit—barely there, just enough to register—and the sound that leaves me fills the cabin, echoing softly off the walls.
“Is that what you want? To be touched here? To come?”
“Yes.”
He pulls his hand away completely.
Fuck.
My head drops back, and I make a sound I don’t even try to control. He lets out a low, satisfied chuckle that tells me he’s enjoying this far too much.
After that, he takes his time. A ridiculous amount of it. His mouth is everywhere except where I need it. His hands slide close, then pull away, pushing me right to the edge and backing off with calculated timing. Every time I start to get there, he senses it and stops—like he knows my body better than I do and is withholding the one thing that would end it.
By the third time I say his name, it comes out shaking. There’s no control left in it.
“That’s your punishment for running your mouth,” he whispers, not even a little sorry.
“I hate you right now.”
He laughs, low and easy. “No, you don’t. You wish you did.”
He presses a slow kiss to my hip bone, then another, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Up,” he says against my skin. “You’re going to suck my dick—but not the way you think.”
I push up, and he shifts with me, hands on my hips, turning me slowly until I’m facing the opposite way—his face between my thighs, his cock lined up with my mouth.
I drop forward onto my forearms.
“Sit on my face,” he says, gripping my hips and pulling me down onto him.
His tongue is on me immediately—no teasing this time, no buildup. Just the flat of it dragging slowly and firmly through me before the tip finds exactly where it needs to be.
My thighs clamp around his head on instinct.
He works me in long strokes, then tighter, more focused circles. His mouth closes and sucks. The sound that tears out of me is loud, completely uncontrolled, echoing in the small space.
I lower my mouth to his cock.
My hand wraps around the base first, steadying, then my tongue drags from root to tip before I take him in. The sound he makes against me hits low, more felt than heard, and it throws me off for a second before I find the rhythm again.
My mouth sinks down slowly, lips dragging, the tip hitting my throat before pulling back and doing it again. My head bobs, my hand working with it—pressure and release, over and over.
