Page 59 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

Slowly. Deliberately. My eyes lock onto his.

I don't pull back.

I take him deeper.

I want this.

I want him unraveled and spilling into me. I want to swallow every drop of the control he's held in an iron fist.

His entire body goes rigid. The muscles in his thighs lock, turning to iron beneath my hands. A strangled sound tears through the quiet room.

He unloads into my mouth, the hot, heavy pulse filling me completely.

I hold him, swallowing, taking everything he gives me. The taste is thick, salt-bitter, entirely his. I don't pull away. I watch him instead—head bowed, breath ragged, gray eyes never leaving mine.

His hands grip my shoulders, fingers digging into the soft skin, anchoring himself.

The release leaves him hollowed out and gasping.

He looks down at me, kneeling between his thighs in the damp darkness.

The silence stretches, heavy with the shift between us.

Then he moves.

No warning. No preamble. He hauls me off the floor. His strength is staggering—two hundred twenty pounds of muscle lifting me like I weigh nothing. The room spins, and the rough canvas of the bed slams against my back.

He follows me down, pinning me beneath him.

"Your turn." Two words. A decree.

He shoves my pants down my thighs with one yank, stripping me bare. The humid air hits my skin and I gasp, my hips arching off the bed.

His calloused hand slides between my thighs, and two thick fingers push inside me without ceremony. A claiming.

"You're soaked." The observation is rough. His thumb finds my clit. "You liked that. You liked being on your knees."

I can't form words. The dual sensation of his fingers curling deep inside me and his thumb grinding slow circles obliterates coherent thought. My back arches, my hips chasing the pressure.

"Tell me."

"Yes." The admission is barely a whisper. "I loved it."

His fingers curl, finding a spot deep inside me that sends an electric jolt through my entire body. My hands fist in the rough canvas. The bed groans beneath us.

Then his mouth replaces his thumb.

I cry out at the first stroke of his tongue. My hips buck off the mattress and his free hand pins me down—one palm pressed flat against my lower abdomen, holding me in place while his mouth works with the same devastating patience he demanded of me.

He licks in deliberate patterns, taking his time, giving me the same focused attention he required minutes ago. His fingers maintain the deep, curling rhythm inside me, matching the tempo of his mouth.

"Dax—" His name breaks apart in my throat.

He presses harder with his tongue, flattening against my clit, increasing the pressure. His fingers twist, stroking the spot that sends white light splintering across my vision.

The orgasm builds like a crescendo in a Tchaikovsky score—gathering force in the strings, climbing through the woodwinds, detonating in the full orchestra's brass. My entire body draws taut, every muscle locking. The dancer's body, trained to hold impossible positions, holds this one—suspended on the razor edge of release while his mouth and his hands dismantle me.

"Let go." His voice vibrates against my flesh.