Page 166 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“Close.” He hooks his fingers into the lace and pulls it down. “But I prefer it when you say my name.”

He wraps his arms around my thighs, pulling me against his mouth, and the first stroke of his tongue splits me open from the inside out. I cry out, and my knees buckle. He holds me up. Of course he does. His hands are iron bands around my thighs, and his mouth is devastating—hot, wet, relentless. He circles my clit with the tip of his tongue, then flattens it against me in a broad stroke that makes my vision swim.

“Taste so good,” he groans against me. “So fucking sweet. I've wanted this all day.”

“I can’t—” My fingers knot in his hair. “I can’t stand⁠—”

“You can.” He sucks gently, and my hips jerk. “You will.”

He devours me with methodical intensity, alternating between long, slow strokes and focused attention to my clit until I'm trembling from head to foot. The sounds are obscene—wet, rhythmic, unmistakable. My head drops back, and the firelight plays across the ceiling while my husband's mouth ruins me.

“Dmitri—Dmitri, I’m⁠—”

“Come for me.” His voice vibrates through me. “Come on my tongue. Let me feel it.”

I break. The orgasm crashes through me in waves, and my thighs clamp around his head. He doesn't stop. He works me through every aftershock until I'm twitching and whimpering and pulling his hair hard enough to hurt.

He rises, and his mouth is glistening. The sight of it sends another throb through my core.

“Good girl,” he says, and the words should not hit the way they do.

“Don't call me⁠—”

“You liked it.” He cups my jaw and kisses me, and I can taste myself on his tongue. “Don't lie to your husband.”

“You're impossible.”

He pulls the slip over my head, and I'm bare. He's still fully dressed. The imbalance is infuriating and arousing in equal measure.

“My turn,” I say, reaching for his shirt.

He catches my wrists. “Not yet.”

“I swear to God, Dmitri⁠—”

He lifts me. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and he carries me to the bed, laying me down with surprising gentleness. Then he strips. Slowly. Shirt first, button by button, revealing the planes of his chest, the scars, the muscle. Then trousers. Then nothing.

His cock is thick and hard, curving up against his stomach, and the sight of it makes my mouth water.

“Like what you see?” he asks.

“I've seen better.”

He laughs. Actually laughs. The sound is so unexpected and warm that it aches behind my ribs.

“Liar,” he says and climbs over me.

His body covers mine, skin to skin without barriers, and the heat of him is overwhelming. His cock slides against my entrance, slick from how wet he’s already made me, and my hips rise to meet him.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, braced above me on one arm, the other hand brushing hair from my face with a tenderness that cracks something open in my chest.

“You. Inside me. Now.”

He pushes in, and the sensation is unrecognizable. I feel every ridge, every vein, the blunt head pressing deep, and the raw skin-to-skin heat of him short-circuits every nerve I have.

“Fuck, Cara.” His arms shake. “You feel—without the⁠—”

“I know.” I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him deeper. “I know.”