Page 72 of Sterling Heat

“Sebastian,” I moan, arching my back, seeking his hard shaft at my backside and rocking against his fingers. He dips one inside me, and we both moan. When he pulls back, the echo of my excitement whispers around us. This is the crescendo. A singer gearing up for that long vibrato, holding a tune and projecting outward.

Sebastian circles my clit once and then rushes inward with two fingers this time.

My throat rumbles. A low moan escapes, as my channel clenches around them, gripping them, milking them. With my hands on his thighs, I roll forward, pulling his fingers deeper into me.

“Baby,” he groans over my shoulder. “Look at you.”

His seductive praise has me glancing down to where he’s touching me, watching where his fingers slide into me. With my legs spread wide and my dress draped over my hips, the stage is set. I’m going to release the biggest orgasm I’ve ever had. I can already feel it building.

“That’s right. This pretty pussy wants me. Me,” he growls.

“You. All of you.” I whimper, knowing I’ve never been this turned on, this desperate for anyone.

But it’s not just anyone. It’s Sebastian, a man who has been nothing but kindness and comfort. He’s my hero again, in a new way, in a way where I shouldn’t confuse physical attraction with emotional connection.

Still, I am connected to him, drawn to him, and what he’s doing to me is blurring the lines he’s tried too hard to set between us.

“That’s it, baby. Look at that pretty pussy taking my fingers.” He groans before nipping my neck.

I’m lost in the bliss of his encouragement. My lower half rocks, taking his fingers, giving him a show.

When his thumb swipes over my clit, my legs threaten to snap together but Sebastian has a firm hold on my thigh, keeping my legs spread.

The resonance of my excitement sings before me.

My breath hitches as he presses over my clit with his thumb. Again and again, he strums, finding the rhythm that will push me over the edge. He moves as if he knows my body. He’s as familiar with me as I am with myself. He’s even better.

Clutching his denim-clad thighs, I tip back my head, thrust my hips forward, and let go. A strained wail floats up my throat and out my open mouth as I come with my legs wide open, my center dripping.

I’m a rain shower, sprinkling down to the stage as the singer hits her final note.

Spent, I sag backward into Sebastian’s chest. My head drops to his shoulder, and he peppers me with more kisses, up and down the column of my throat. I drift downward from the high, slowly loosening my hold on his legs. My breathing restores to a slower tempo.

But I’m ready for an encore.

I want one more song. One more performance.

I want more of Sebastian.

We’re a flame that’s only starting to flicker. I want the inferno that will burn us to the ground.

Sebastian tenderly withdraws his fingers and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them between his lips. He hums near my ear. “Fuck, baby, I knew you’d taste like pure sugar.”

His words inspire me, and I slide off the couch, boneless as I lower to my knees. Then I spin to face him.

“Enya?” His brows lift, his eyes widening in surprise. I grip the waist band of his jeans and tug him forward, wanting him to lean back into the cushions and let me have my way with him.

I need to taste him. Is he sweet? Or tangy. Or salty and fresh.

I have the button undone and my fingers on the tab of his zipper when Adara lets out a squawk.

No. No, no, no, no . . . I need to reciprocate. For all this man has done, I want to make him feel good, special, important to me. Worthy. He deserves my gratitude. He deserves love.

He needs to be the highlight of tonight’s show.

“Please,” I cry.

“Baby.” Sebastian cups the side of my face. “Tonight was all about you.”