His lips graze the nape of my neck. “We’ve got one night, and I intend to make every second count.”
Heath reaches for the zipper of my dress and slowly drags it down. His hand trails over my shoulders and slips the straps off. The fabric slides down my body and pools at my feet, leaving me standing in my bra and panties.
His fingers make quick work of the clasp of my bra, sliding the straps down my arms and letting it fall to the floor. When he turns me around to face him, his eyes flicker to my bare breasts, a low rumble coming from his chest.
I bite my lip, attempting to mask my nerves as his gaze drifts to the black pump belt sitting low on my hips. As a type 1 diabetic, I don’t have the luxury of being spontaneous without a brief intermission to detach myself from the pump and tubing.Not the most romantic thing, so I avoid making eye contact as I quickly unclip the belt, disconnect the tubing, and set my pump on the dresser.
I’ve learned to brace myself for the usual reactions—guys freezing up or making tactless comments about the pump or infusion site. But when I risk a glance at Heath, his heated expression hasn’t dimmed in the slightest.
He closes the distance between us and runs his palm along my hip bone, sending a shiver racing down my spine.
“You’re so damn beautiful, Charlie,” he says almost reverently.
I exhale sharply, caught off guard by the compliment. He usually calls me hellcat—a nickname I pretend to complain about but secretly love. Yet hearing him say my name in that low, rumbling voice sends warmth blooming in my chest.
I take a step back, but he follows, his hand never leaving my waist. The third step has me bumping against the mattress, and I sink down onto it, my pulse thundering in my ears.
I’m not expecting Heath to lower himself to his knees in front of me, his broad shoulders settling between my legs.
“Kneeling suits you,” I taunt.
“Doesn’t make me any less in charge,” he warns, a dark edge to his tone. “It just gives me the perfect angle to wreck you.”
“Do your worst,” I quip, unable to stop myself from provoking him.
In one smooth motion, he drags me to the edge of the mattress. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my lace panties and slowly drags them down my legs. His eyes stay locked on mine as he lifts the delicate fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply with a low groan before folding it and slipping it into his back pocket. I try not to read into the fact that he clearly has no intention of giving my panties back.
His hungry gaze returns to me, heavy with promise.
I lean back on my elbows as he lifts my leg over his shoulder, leaving me spread open for him. He doesn’t waste a second, dipping down to drag his tongue along my inner thigh, teasing higher and higher until his breath ghosts over my entrance.
A soft moan slips from my lips as he runs his tongue along my slit. His fingers follow, tracing my wetness before pushing inside me. The sudden fullness strikes my center like a live wire, sending electric pulses racing through my entire body. I eagerly ride his face, rocking desperately as the coarse stubble on his jaw grazes my inner thigh with every movement.
A sharp moan escapes me as his tongue moves to my clit, teasing with torturous circles. He sucks the swollen bud between his lips, applying just enough pressure to make my hips jerk.
Lord have mercy.
“Mmm, you taste like heaven,” Heath growls against me. “So damn responsive to me.”
The vibration pulls another sharp moan from me. He adds a third finger, burying them deep as he curls them upward, hitting that sweet spot with merciless precision.
While he pumps his fingers in and out of me, his mouth stays locked on my clit, sucking hard. The dual sensation sends liquid fire racing through my veins, and my hips thrust forward on their own, grinding shamelessly on his face as my vision whites out at the edges.
The next time he drags his tongue over my sensitive nub, intense electricity crackles through every nerve ending. My orgasm slams into me without warning, ripping a broken scream from my throat while my walls clamp down around his fingers.
Heath groans against me, dragging his tongue through my pussy, savoring the slick evidence of my release.
“Holy shit,” I say, my limbs still twitching from the aftershocks.
He lifts his face from between my legs, his chin glistening from my release. “That was only the warm-up.”
“Careful.” I tsk softly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“Clearly, you’ve never been properly satisfied before,” Heath taunts. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m going to fix that, and we won’t stop until the sun comes up.”
Despite his bold promise, I’m still not convinced. I blame my neglected libido. According to the women’s health magazine I skimmed at the endocrinologist’s office during my last visit, five orgasms a week is the golden ticket to happiness.Yeah, right. Whoever wrote that either hasn’t met a real man or is popping experimental love potions that haven’t hit the market yet.
The guys I’ve been with have no idea what they’re doing and barely manage to get me off with a mediocre orgasm. The climax Heath just gave me was earth-shattering, and there’s no chance I’ll be able to settle for anything less in the future.
