Page 50 of The Summer We Lie

My lungs still burn sweetly as I try to catch my breath. Every nerve ending in my body tingles with the afterglow of that mind-shattering release. I'm boneless in his arms, barely able to stand, my body still humming with pleasure I've never felt before.

"Let me taste," he says, his voice a dark caress against my ear as I slowly come down from the high, the words vibrating through me like a physical touch.

I bring my hand up, dazed, my movements languid and dreamlike, my fingers still slick with evidence of what he just did to me.

"God, you're soaked," he growls when he sees my glistening fingers. Before I can respond, he grabs my wrist, bringing my hand to his mouth. His lips wrap around my fingers—warm, wet, insistent—and he sucks every trace of my arousal from them. The gentle suction and sweep of his tongue against my sensitive fingertips sends aftershocks racing through my body.

It's the hottest thing I've ever witnessed. This powerful, commanding man devouring the evidence of my pleasure like it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. My heart hammers against my ribs, and despite just coming harder than I ever have in my life, I feel desire stirring within me again, a relentless ache that refuses to be satisfied so easily.

When my hand is clean, he releases it slowly, making sure I feel the gentle scrape of his teeth against my sensitive skin, a promise of what else those teeth could do.

"Fuck, you taste like the sweetest fruit," he says, his voice thick with want.

Then he bends down behind me. I feel his breath against my bare skin, hot and tantalizing, but before I can process what's happening, there's a sharp sting on the curve of my ass that makes me yelp in surprise. He bit me. He actually bit me, and god help me, I want him to do it again, to feel the exquisite blend of pain and pleasure only he seems able to create.

I feel him grabbing my discarded towel from the floor as he rises, his body sliding against mine in a deliberate tease, every point of contact between us igniting new fires beneath my skin.

"We're going to have so much fun," he promises, wrapping the towel around me and securing it with surprising tenderness. His fingers brush against my skin as he adjusts the fabric, sending electric shivers racing across my flesh, goosebumps rising in their wake. "Make sure you drink all of your water," he adds, backing away slowly, his eyes still devouring me with that same intense focus.

I turn around, clutching the towel to my chest as if it might shield me from the raw need coursing through me, and watch him smile at me. It's predatory and possessive, and it makes something primitive inside me respond, something I didn't even know existed until this moment.

He turns and leaves my room, closing the door quietly behind him, taking all the oxygen with him.

His absence hits me like a physical blow. All I want is for him to come back and slip inside me, fill me up completely, claim me in the most basic way possible. God, I want him more than I've ever wanted anything or anyone. He just gave me the most intense orgasm of my life, and he barely did anything. My mind spins with possibilities of what he might do when he actually gives me more, when those large hands explore every inch of me, when that mouth takes possession of mine.

Fuck. I'm so fucked. I'm completely at his mercy, and the scariest part is that I don't care.

I grab the water bottle from where I set it down and chug it greedily, my throat parched from my gasps and moans. The cool liquid slides down my throat, but does nothing to quench the heat still burning inside me, an inferno he's stoked and left to rage.

As I set the empty bottle down, my fingers still trembling slightly, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes wide and bright with lingering desire, my lips swollen from biting them. The mark of his hand still faintly visible on my throat. I look thoroughly ravished, and he's barely touched me. What will I look like when he's done with me completely?

I need to get ready for dinner, but all I can think about is Dom—his hands on my body, his voice in my ear, his teeth on my skin. How am I supposed to sit across from him at dinner and act normal after what just happened? How do I pretend I'm not desperate for him to take me upstairs and finish what he started?

With shaky legs, I move to my suitcase to find something to wear, knowing that whatever I choose, all I really want is for him to take it off me again, preferably with his teeth.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dominic

I walk into the kitchen and stop in my tracks. Skye stands at the counter, her back to me, reaching for a glass in the upper cabinet. The dress she's wearing clings to every curve of her body like it was painted on—deep blue fabric that barely reaches mid-thigh. And those heels. The same ones from the night we met, adding inches to her height, making her legs look impossibly long.

My mind immediately conjures the image of those legs over my shoulders, those heels in the air as I thrust into her, her body arching beneath mine on my drafting table, sketches scattered to the floor. I imagine her spread out like a blueprint waiting for my hands to shape her, to build something beautiful from the raw materials of our desire.

I force the thought away, but my body reacts anyway. The urge to cross the kitchen, press her against the counter, and claim those full lips is almost overwhelming. I take a step forward before noticing movement in my peripheral vision.

Harper is in the dining room, bent over adjusting the buckle on her shoe. I didn't even register her presence, so consumed by the sight of Skye. Jesus Christ. This is exactly why this thing with Skye is such a terrible idea. The foundation is unstable, the structure compromised from the beginning by my inability to think clearly when she's around.

I clear my throat and move into the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator. Skye turns at the sound, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand. Our eyes meet, and the memory of what happened in her bedroom flashes between us—her trembling body against mine, the taste of her arousal on her fingers, the perfect sound of her coming undone. The silent acknowledgment passes between us like an electric current, dangerous and thrilling.

I lean against the opposite counter, mirroring her stance, and let my eyes travel the length of her body. The dress reveals just enough cleavage to be maddening without being overtly sexual, and the hemline rides up ever so slightly when she shifts her weight, offering a tantalizing glimpse of more skin. My fingers itch to trace the hemline, to test its structural integrity by sliding beneath it.

"I'm ready!" Harper announces, standing up. "Those buckles are a pain in the ass."

I finally look at my daughter properly and nearly choke on my water. Her dress is equally revealing—a short black number with cutouts along the sides that show far too much skin for my comfort. When did she grow up so much? The protective father in me wants to throw a blanket over her, preserve the little girl who used to sit on my shoulders.

"Aren't these dresses a little too revealing for dinner?" The words are out before I can stop them, the protective father in me taking over.

Harper laughs, rolling her eyes. "No. And besides, we're going clubbing after, so we dressed for that, remember?"