Page 83 of To Tango, with Desire

I was bare to him, vulnerable, and exposed. I waited, feeling his gaze sweeping over me. I lifted my head, gasping at the molten expression in his dark eyes. He was kneeling before me, breathing me in. I lay back against the mattress, biting my lip as his hands traveled up my thighs.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“You know—”

“I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”

“I want your tongue inside of me. I want your mouth on my clit. I need you to make me come.”

“I thought you’d never ask, wife.”

And when he lowered his dark head and lapped at my sex, I cried out, gripping the duvet. Firm and soft and so fucking skilled, he started licking me, long, languorous strokes, taking his damned sweet time.

He gripped my thighs, opening me further. When he focused on my clit, I thought I was going to pass out. The friction was enough to make my legs tremble.

I didn’t care that I was dripping wet and begging for it. At that moment, I just needed him.

Zane pulled back, his lips red. “Do you want more?”

I nodded.

“I want your fingers inside of me.”

“Only if you come.”

I groaned, arching my body. “Fuck yes.”

His arrogant grin barely pierced through my desire. I didn’t care. So long as he never stopped, what he thought didn't matter. I’d broken the agreement. I’d caved in after nearly two months of marriage. But it was what I wanted, what I craved more than anything else right now.

His tongue circled my entrance, and he pressed inside gently, teasing me until I squirmed.

“Patience, wife.”

He slipped one finger in, rocking back and forth. Then two. I felt the pressure building, but it was only when he inserted a third that he began to suck on my clit.

No vibrator could ever live up to this. Nothing sated this need. Only him.

Zane drove me to the edge, then backed off. He persisted in this torture until I was rocking against his fingers. I was hot, shaking, desperate to lose control.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please make me come.” I gasped, looking down at him.

“Please, what? Wife.”

“Husband. Please, husband, make me fucking come.”

With a wicked grin, he did.

His tongue marked a rhythm on my clit, and the pressure of his fingers inside of me, the sweet, slippery friction, was enough to drive me to the edge. The combination left me trickling, and I knew that I was going to squirt.

Then he groaned. That low, guttural sound vibrated through me. And I lost it.