Page 31 of Twisted Tate

“Tate—”

“Do you trust me?”

She goes still. I lift my head to look at her, and something passes between us. This isn’t just about sex. We both know it.

“Yes.” She says it quietly. “I trust you.”

“Then let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like when someone owns you.”

Her eyes go wet, and she nods.

I release her wrists and drop to my knees.

She sucks in a breath, her back pressing harder against the tile as I grip her thighs and spread them apart. The water rains down on my shoulders, steam rising around us.

“I want—” She stops and swallows.

“Tell me.” I press a kiss to her inner thigh, and she trembles. I can smell how much she wants this, rich and sweet.

“I want you to make me forget.” Her voice shakes, but she doesn’t look away. “Every man who ever touched me. Every face I see when I close my eyes. Every nightmare. I want you to replace all of it. I only ever want to see you.”

My chest goes fucking tight.

“I want to close my eyes and only see your face.” Tears slide down her cheek, mixing with the water. “I want to feel your hands on me and not remember theirs. Can you do that?”

I rise up and cup her face, wiping the tears away with my thumbs.

“I’m going to fuck every memory of them right out of your head.” My voice comes out rough. “By the time I’m done, the only hands you’ll feel are mine. The only face you’ll see is mine. The only name on your lips will be mine.”

“Promise?”

“I fucking promise. As many times as it takes.”

I kiss her lips again, then drop back down and bury my face between her thighs.

She cries out, her hands flying to my hair as I drag my tongue through her folds. She’s drenched. I can taste how much she wants this. She tastes sweet, and she’s all fucking mine.

“Oh god.” Her head falls back against the tile. “Tate—”

“You taste so fucking good.” I spread her open with my thumbs and lick her again, slower this time. I flatten my tongue and drag it from her entrance to her clit, then back down. “I could eat this pussy for hours.”

Her body jerks from pleasure. I find her clit and circle it with the tip of my tongue, light and teasing. She whimpers and tries to grind against my face, but I grip her hips and hold her still.

“Please.” Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling hard enough to sting. “I need more.”

“I told you. You don’t come until I say.”

I work her up slowly. I lick and suck, teasing her until her thighs are trembling and she’s making desperate, broken sounds. Every time she gets close—every time I feel her thighs shake and her pussy clench—I back off, switching to long, slow strokes that keep her right on the edge.

“Tate, please.” She’s sobbing, her whole body shaking. “I can’t take it. Please let me come. I need it. I need—”

“What do you need, baby girl?” I look up at her, my chin slick from her pussy. “Use your words.”

“I need to come on your face.” The words tumble out desperate and shameless. “Please. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything. Just please—”