Page 153 of Reckless

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I say, breathless already.

He looks up at me, something wicked in his eyes. “Obviously.”

Then, finally, his mouth finds where I need him, his tongue circling my clit, and the sound that tears out of me isn’t remotely quiet. My hips buck up on instinct, and his hands come down firmly on my thighs, holding me still, holding me right where he wants me. He doesn’t let up, working me slowly and thoroughly, exactly the way he does everything, like he intends to learn every single thing that makes me fall apart and commit it fully to memory.

My back arches off the mattress. My fingers twist harder into the sheets. And Ghost, steady and unhurried even now, simply holds me there and keeps going.

“Ghost, I swear to God—”

He hums against me, which is worse, and keeps going until my body is shaking and I’m right on the edge, and then he pulls back again. I snap my head down to glare at him, and I actually growl at him, dragging him up by the hair. “You’re an ass for doing this to me again.”

“Noted.” He finally kicks off the rest of his clothes and settles between my thighs, gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. “But I’m about to make up for it.” His voice is thick with lust as he thrusts into me with one long, deep stroke that punches the air straight out of my lungs. He doesn’t move right away. He holds there, forehead dropped against mine, breathing hard, as if he needs a second to remember he’s not supposed to lose his mind completely.

Then he starts moving, and it isn’t soft, but it isn’t the wild, half-crazed thing from before either. It’s deep and steady, every drag of his hips punching a groan out of me that he swallows straight from my mouth. His hand slides down and hooks under my knee, dragging it up higher against his hip, and the new angle has me cursing his name right into his shoulder. “Fuck, Ghost!”

“That’s it, Sage,” he mutters against my ear. “Let me hear you.”

I dig my nails into his back, and he groans, dropping his forehead to mine, his hips still working that same deep, punishing rhythm, unhurried but ruthless with it, like he’s got all night and intends to use every minute of it. Every time I think he’ll speed up, he doesn’t, holding to that same maddening pace until I’m clawing at him, begging him without actually saying the words, and he presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth like he’s got all the patience in the world.

“Ghost, please.”

“Not yet.” His voice is wrecked, barely holding together, but he doesn’t give an inch.

Suddenly, he flips us, pulling me up onto his lap without breaking rhythm once, and the change punches a groan out of both of us at the same time. His hands grip my hips hard, guiding the pace, and I brace against his shoulders, riding him slow and deep, then rougher, then slow again, both of us drawing it out on purpose now, neither one willing to be the first to break. His mouth finds mine, sloppy and hungry, and I can feel him grinning against my lips even as he curses under his breath.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters.

“Good.”

He flips me back onto the mattress before I can get another word out, driving into me harder now, one hand fisted in the sheets by my head, the other still locked tightly around my hip, and his every drive has me gasping his name over and over like it’s the only word I know how to say anymore.

Then his elbow catches the lamp on the nightstand and nearly sends it crashing to the floor. He curses, and I burst out laughing right in the middle of it, breathless and undignified. “Christ, woman,” but he’s grinning against my neck when he says it, and the laugh turns into a moan the second he snaps his hips harder and shuts me up entirely.

He drags his hips back, achingly slow, pulling almost all the way out, and I feel the loss of him immediately, a whimper escaping before I can stop it. My heels dig into the backs of his thighs, pulling him back toward me, refusing to let him get far.

He laughs against my mouth. “That’s cheating.”

“Get back here.”

He resists for half a second longer, hovering, watching my face with that maddening, unhurried patience of his, and then he gives in and sinks deep again in one slow, deliberate roll of his hips, and the sound that punches out of me makes him groan right along with it.

“You’re not playing fair,” I say against his lips.

“Never said I would.” His mouth finds mine again, softer this time, and I feel him smile into the kiss even as his hips keep that same deliberate rhythm going, deep and unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world to take me apart properly. I drag my nails down his back, and he groans low in his throat, dropping his head to my shoulder, his breath hot against my skin.

“Ghost.”

“Patience, baby.”

“I mean it! Fuck me, asshole!”

He chuckles and picks up the pace just slightly, enough to pull a moan out of me that I don’t even try to hold back.

His forehead presses to mine, and for a moment we breathe together, foreheads touching, hips still moving, the two of us caught in something that doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere near an end yet. His hand slides from my hip up along my ribs, and I catch it, lacing our fingers together and pinning it to the mattress beside my head, and he lets me, lets me hold him there while he keeps working into me fast and deep, watching my face the whole time like he doesn’t want to miss a single reaction.

“You’re staring,” I say.

“I like watching you.”