Page 39 of Wicked Ruin

“I want to memorize you,” I say against his ear, because he smells like everything I've ever wanted and feels like something I was never meant to have. “Did you check in at home?” he asks against my neck.

“It's not my home for much longer,” I whisper. “I’m moving into my own place. But I did—Erin said good night.”

“Perfect. Once I start, I don’t want to stop.”

Then he's laying me down slowly, following me onto the bed, one arm braced above me. He kisses my lips, down the column of my throat, along my collarbone. His tongue drags across the hollow of my neck, and my head falls back, my chin tipping up instinctively.

“That feels so good,” I say, strangled.

“It's because you're such a good girl,” he whispers. “That's it, love. Just like that. Let me take care of you.”

What wrecks me the most is how he pays attention. He notices when my tongue meets his and my breath changes. He watches as he trails his mouth lower, and my back arches. He's learning me, cataloging every pathway to my pleasure, like it matters, like I matter, and doing it all with purpose.

“Don't ever hide from me,” he says softly, his mouth near my navel, his breath warm on my skin. “You're beautiful, and I love what I see.”

Then he's pressing his lips to me through the thin fabric of my knickers, and my hips lift toward him before I can think to stop them.

“That's my girl,” he says. “Open up for me. Take my mouth. Take my fingers.” He hooks his fingers at the waistband. “Slide these off for me, love.”

I do. I lift my hips and slide them down, half shaky, half desperate, because I know what he’s going to do, and there’s nowhere to hide, but I want him. He makes a low sound of approval before he bends his head and spreads me open. The first drag of his tongue pulls a cry out of me I couldn't have swallowed if I'd tried. My fingers find his hair and anchor there, holding on, and he groans against me like I'm the one doing something to him.

He doesn't stop. He licks me again and again, circling, sucking gently, pressing his tongue flat and slick and deliberate, exactly where I need it.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against my thighs. “My beautiful girl.”

“I'm not going to last,” I whisper. “I'm already⁠—”

“That's my girl. Come on. Give it to me. We're only getting started.” Again, unhurried, like he has all night and intends to use it. “Just like that, love.”

I have a personal goal of not becoming emotionally undone by sex. It's currently in pieces on the floor.

He keeps talking, low, steady, deliberate, and I stop trying to stifle my response and let him hear me. He makes a sound of deep satisfaction at that, a murmur of approval pressed against my thigh.

“That's a girl. You're doing so well. So fucking well. Look at you.” His voice is warmth and want and something more that I don't have words for. “That's my girl. Just like that. Let go.”

And I do. An orgasm racks through me, my vision going blurry at the edges, my body shuddering, as he eases me to completion with his tongue. His hands are warm and steady and present, holding me through it, murmuring soft approval until the last of it passes.

“There she is,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “You're alright.”

I'm more than alright. I'm wrecked and warm and completely undone.

“I want you,” I tell him when I can speak again. Now that I’m basking in the afterglow of orgasm, my need for him is an ache. “It’s alright, I’m on birth control. And I want you inside me.” I’m begging now. “The first time I met you, I told you I didn’t want to die a virgin, remember?”

He smiles. “Aye, of course I do. Be patient, love,” he whispers. “I want to take my time.” He comes to my entrance and circles slowly, coating himself in my wet heat. I feel every nerve ending I own light up at once.

“My god, you're so ready.” His forehead drops to mine. “Such a good girl. Look at you.”

Then he pushes in slowly, so slowly, watching my face the entire time—and the stretch of it pulls a sound out of me I've never made before in my life because I didn't know I could. Because nothing has prepared me for this. For him. For the way my body opens around him like it was only ever waiting for exactly this.

“That's it,” he breathes out. “That's it, love. You're doing so well.” He goes still, and I grip him like I'm falling.

“There.” His lips brush my cheek, my temple, the corner of my jaw. “You won't die a virgin now.”

I laugh, and it comes out wrecked because somewhere beneath the heat and the wanting, I think I might actually cry—at the fullness of him, at the realness of it, at the fact that it's him, and it was always going to be him.

“You alright?” Low. Steady. His thumb traces slow circles at my hip.

“Give me a second.”