Page 131 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I trace that finger downward, watching his muscles tremble under my control. His breath comes deeper.

I stop at his belt line and whisper, “This is not forgiveness.”

“I know.”

“Don’t say that.”

He’s quiet; his lips press into a firm line. My lips twitch with something like triumph, but then I remember why we’re here. Triumph feels hollow.

“Kneel.”

He hesitates for just a breath—longer than any hesitation before—but then he lowers himself to his knees. The carpet fibers catch at his skin, and he tilts his chin slightly upward, eyes locking on mine. My heart thunders.

I reach down and thread my fingers through his hair, pulling gently so it’s neither soft nor cruel, just firm. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, then reopen.

“Look at me,” I order. He obeys, unwavering. I tighten my grip marginally, drawing his gaze to mine. “You don’t touch me. You don’t take control. You do exactly what I tell you, and if I say stop, you stop.”

He inhales, steady and deep, the heat of him burning in his eyes. “Yes.”

“And if you need me to stop?”

“I tell you.”

I stand above him, this complex, infuriating man kneeling willingly at my feet. I feel no forgiveness yet, no absolution—just a profound sense of ownership. My choice, my terms, exactly what I need tonight.

I step back just enough to put space between our bodies, strip my shirt off, toss it aside, then slide my hands down my hips and wriggle out of the sweats. The cotton clings to my thighs with static, then puddles around my ankles.

I kick them away and stand there, bare and flushed from equal parts anger and need, letting him look. His gaze is a slow burn up my legs.

Camille’s face doesn’t change, but his breath does, a visible hitch that makes my own skin tighten. He is still kneeling, arms bound behind him, utterly at my mercy.

I step in close, so close his exhale warms the top of my thigh. My hand goes to the nape of his neck, tightening, and this time I yank his head back just hard enough to see where his hands strain slightly against the silk. He bares his throat to me without resistance, the power dynamic so stark it almost makes me dizzy.

“Suck me,” I say.

His eyes flick up, meeting mine, and the look there is as close to worship as I will ever let myself receive. He leans forward, mouth open, and I guide his face to where I want him. The first brush of his lips is both familiar and entirely new, the lack of his hands making everything more intense—he can’t balance himself or pull me closer, just kneel and take what I give him. His mouth is hot and soft, and I let out a gasp, not caring that it sounds desperate.

“Fuck, yes. More. Harder,” I order, and he does, hollowing his cheeks and sucking. I fist both hands in his hair, holding him exactly where I want, and rock my hips against his face until I feel the scrape of his jaw, the slight grind of bone and stubble as he presses harder into me. The control is total and absolute, and for the first time since yesterday, I can breathe.

I keep him there until my legs start to shake, then wrench his head back. He lets me, mouth flushed and wet, chest rising in bursts like he just ran a sprint. I fight the urge to kiss him, and instead stare down at his face, memorizing the way he looks.

I back up, and he straightens as best he can, shoulders rolling to shift the strain in his arms. I watch his chest move, the long curve of his neck, the way his mouth stays slightly open, lips already bruised from how hard I pressed him.

I grab his jaw, thumb tugging his bottom lip down. “Again,” I order, “but this time—” My voice breaks, but I force it out. “This time, use your tongue on—on all of me…” The last three words come out almost foreign to my own mouth, like I’m daring myself to see how much I can stand.

His eyes go impossibly dark. He knows what I’m asking, and for one fleeting second I expect the slightest hesitation, some fraction of self-preservation or pride, but instead, he leans forward, tilts his head, and drags his tongue over me, slow and greedy. I suck in a breath so hard my head spins. When he does it again, slower, wetter, I cannot stop the noise that escapes me.

“Ahh, yes, oh f-fuck.”

I brace myself, my thighs shaking slightly, and let him work me over. There is something unhinged about how quickly the shame and pleasure combine; my whole body feels wired for explosion, like there’s a fuse burning directly from my stomach to my skull.

He licks me again, this time letting his tongue dip lower, teasing at the part of me I’ve never had someone’s mouth before. For a half-second my brain stutters, but the want is louder, and I push forward, just a millimeter, daring him to take it further. He does. He traces me with the tip of his tongue, then circles, then presses in, and my knees almost buckle. I steady myself with both of my hands on his head, holding him against me, my vision swimming at the edges.

I look down; the sight of him kneeling, wrists cinched, tongue pressed where I want it makes everything inside me clench tight. “More,” I gasp, voice shaking. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He works me with a rhythm that is calculated and raw at once, alternating between shallow flicks and slower, deeper pushes, driving me crazy with the unpredictability. Then he goes back to sucking the front, switching effortlessly, and the overstimulation is so much I almost pull away—but I don’t. I ride it, digging my nails into his scalp and grinding against him, shameless and greedy and helpless at the same time.

When I feel myself falling apart, all the heat coiling and tightening, I yank his head back again, just for a second—just to prove I can. “Wait,” I warn, my own voice a stranger to me.