Page 89 of On The Edge

How, when for the first time ever, someone has made me look forward to days that aren’t race days?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Maddix

Hands.

I feel them sliding over my skin.

Lips.

Lazy kisses down my shoulder. The slip of the sheet and the cool air of the bedroom. A lazy circle of tongue around my nipple.

“Cruz,” I murmur, my eyes fluttering open in the early dawn light. All I see are shadows. All I feel are sensations.

The denim of his jeans scraping over my thighs. The pressure of his fingertips as they push my thighs apart.

“Shh,” he murmurs against my stomach.

A glance at the clock has me stilling. Five in the morning. He has a flight to catch. In ten minutes. Monza is waiting.

“You have to go.”

“I know.” I can feel his lips curl up in a smile against the top of my mound.

“Like really have to go.” My words hold little urgency as his fingers part me and slide through the slickness already waiting for him.

“There’s unexpected traffic on the way to the airport.” A kiss to my clit. “Road closures.” A slide of his tongue with the perfect pressure. “Animals crossing.”

My laugh turns into a moan as he dips his tongue into me.

“I can fuck you with my tongue, Madds, or I can get in the elevator and leave. Your choice.”

“And this is why I’m not coming with you right away.”

He chuckles against my skin as his tongue draws lazy circles around my clit. “Coming is the name of the game.”

He flicks it back and forth with expert pressure and finesse. With the actions he knows drives me feral. He tempts and taunts, and my struggle to have him not be late for his flight gives way to the pleasure taking over every nerve of my body.

My gasp fills the room and its early morning light. My fingers thread through his hair as he pleasures me. As he undoes me. As he reminds me just how adept he is at this. Not like it’s been very long since he did it last. What? Three days? I couldn’t get Michael to go down on me once every few months yet Cruz acts like it’s a necessity to his health to make me come this way.

What woman complains about that?

“I love the way you fucking taste,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath against my most intimate flesh.

“Cruz.” His name is a guttural moan as my fingers grip his hair tighter.

“I love when you say it like that.” A lick. “Desperate.” A suck. “Breathless.” A delve of his tongue into me that has my hips bucking up so he can probe deeper and hit where I want him to hit. “Greedy.”

My body tenses as my core liquefies.

“This makes me so fucking hard. Smelling you. Tasting you. Having you come on my tongue.”

I moan as he adds his fingers to the mix.

I grip the sheets as his tongue works me over. As I buck my hips. As the center of my universe tilts off its axis and crashes back down with stars behind my closed eyes. My body’s a mess of sensations and nerves.

“That’s my girl.” He continues the slow thrust of his fingers in and out of me to draw out every ounce of pleasure from my orgasm before he crawls back up my body.