“No,” I say, leaning forward, resisting the urge to press my breasts into him.
Not too eager.
Nose to his neck, I breathe him in, the smell of smoked wood sweetened with feminine soap.Hersoap.
Closing my eyes, I press my lips to his neck—subtle, light. Gratitude dressing up a pile of ash.
I kiss him again and let the tip of my tongue graze the slope of his throat as I descend, then rise again. His skin cools beneath the thin gloss of saliva, but the hand that slips up my thigh feelshot. It disappears beneath the thick material of my dress.
He cups beneath my jaw and brings my mouth to his, so close but not quite a kiss. He has to tease me first.
Breath tickles my lips before I feel the softest graze. The faintest trace of warmth along my lower lip. He releases my jaw and moves his hand up the back of my neck, fingers threading my hair before I’m tilted back. He yanks, sharp but slight, my scalp tingling just enough to remind me he’s in charge—or at least that he believes he is.
I gasp, caught off guard. And he uses my open mouth as the perfect opportunity to sink into my lips.
It’s tense—tense enough to hint at the controversy in his mind. He looked me in the eyes when he told me he’d stop my training, but the victory comes at a cost. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sawyer becamemoreassertive, just to soothe the ache of relinquishing control.
I don’t care.
He could go back on his word, sure; but the fact that he agreed to my terms?
He’s breaking down. Becoming more open to suggestion.
That’s success.
As soon as his lips relax, I lean into him, my tongue finding him hesitant. He’s slow to let me guide, but after a moment of both my hands pressing against his chest, he scoots us backward, away from the edge of the platform.
We lower to the wood, my legs bracketing his hips. I kiss his jaw and find him tense—again. Suspicious.
We’re two poker players at a table, feeling out the other’s bluff. I could shove him to his death if he wasn’t so crucialfor my cause, and he could shove me off just to get rid of an inconvenience.
But neither of us try.
My palms flatten beside his head while I seek out his lips. I find them stiff, but it doesn’t stop his greedy hands from working their way up my dress and into my panties. He palms my rear but doesn’t squeeze. Not yet.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
It’s a question he’s asked many, many times, but not until now has he truly meant it.
His concern is almost concerning.
“Of course,” I say, staring into gorgeous blue eyes. My whole life, people have been stunned by my eyes. I’ve never felt the same until Sawyer.
He blinks—the smallest sign of surrender—and closes his eyes while I go back to kissing him.
Slowly, he unravels.
First in his mouth, his tongue coming alive, his lips moving in rougher waves.
Then in his hips that wiggle, fidget. Thrust—light, more of an invitation than a demand.
Finally, in his hands. His fingers dig divots into my rear before he releases and works his way around to my front.
His knuckles lick up my inner thigh in a seductive caress that Iknowis merely a trick but that I fall for anyway. I sigh into his mouth as the muscles in my thighs twitch with anticipation. He tucks himself inside my panties; finds my poor, abused clit. When he rubs, I moan, breaking away from his mouth so I can hide in his neck.
It’s too hard. Too fast. More torture.
But like always, it works. My core twists and turns for him, my hips wiggling, my palms grinding on wood. I hiss when I get a splinter and lift my palm to my face.
