Page 11

His brows shoot up. Genuine shock flickers across those mismatched eyes. “So you’ve never been eaten out?”

I shake my head, cheeks flaming all over again.

He exhales through his nose, a rough sound that’s half disbelief, half anger. “Your ex is a fucking idiot.” Then, quieter, almost dangerous: “And if you’re still thinking about him while I’m right here on my knees for you, then I’m doing a shit job.”

Before I can respond, he surges up, scoops me into his arms, and flips me onto the massive bed. I bounce once on the mattress with a startled shriek, the soft duvet puffing around me.

He’s on me in the next heartbeat, hands wrapping around my ankles, dragging me to the very edge of the bed so my legs dangle off. He drops back to his knees between my thighs, eyes locked on mine as he pushes the hem of my dress up to my hips.

His palm cups me through my soaked panties, pressure firm and possessive. “These are drenched, plamya.” His voice is gravelly, his thick accent wrapping around every word.

“You this wet because you want to get fucked?”

That endearment. I might not know what it means, but I like it when he calls me that. A moan slips out before I can stop it. He leans in, blows a slow, hot stream of air right against the damp lace, and my hips jerk off the bed.

Then his teeth graze the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, sharp enough to sting, not hard enough to break skin. I gasp. He soothes the spot immediately with a slow, wet kiss, tongue flicking over the faint mark he left.

He does it again on the other thigh, bite, sting, kiss, and my hands fist the sheets so hard my knuckles ache.

He holds my gaze the entire time, those mismatched eyes boring straight into me, like he’s seeing every hidden corner of my soul and liking what he finds there. As his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, he drags them down slowly, inch by torturous inch, never breaking eye contact.

The lace slides over my hips, down my thighs, past my knees, and then he tosses them carelessly to the floor.

He leans in, nose brushing the sensitive skin just above my center, and inhales deeply, like he’s savoring the scent of me. A low, hungry rumble vibrates in his chest. Then his mouth is on me.

Oh God.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t start slow. He devours me like I’m the first real meal he’s had in years. His tongue flattens against me in one long, firm stroke from bottom to top, then circles my clit with precise, relentless pressure.

He sucks gently, then harder, flicking the tip of his tongue in quick, fluttering motions that make my hips buck off the bed. I’ve never felt anything like this. Luke’s refusals left me thinking oral was just… okay at best, something people exaggerated for romance novels. I was wrong. So fucking wrong.

This is fire. This is lightning striking every nerve at once. Pleasure so sharp it almost hurts, building and building until I can’t breathe right. My hands fist the sheets, knuckles white.

My back arches. Sounds rip out of me, high, desperate whimpers, broken cries of “God, oh God,” unintelligible nonsense that I don’t even recognize as my own voice.

He groans against me, the vibration sending fresh shocks through my core, and the sound tells me everything: he’s enjoying this. He’s not just doing it for me, he’s lost in it, hungry.

I’m writhing, thighs trembling around his head, trying to chase more and pull away at the same time because it’s too much and not enough. My whole body coils tight, tighter, until the tension snaps.

I come hard, harder than I ever have, shattering on his tongue with a cry that echoes off the high ceilings. Waves crash through me, relentless, my inner walls pulsing as pleasure rips me apart.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He licks me through every aftershock until I’m shaking, gasping, boneless against the mattress.

I’m still trying to catch my breath, chest heaving, when he slides one thick finger inside me. My walls flutter around the intrusion, still so sensitive.

“Count for me, baby,” he murmurs against my thigh, voice rough and dark.

I blink down at him, dazed. “What?”

He curls the finger just slightly, pressing against that spot inside that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. “You’re not leaving this room until you’ve come at least five times. So count. Start with one.”

Five? I almost laugh, but the look on his face is dead serious. I swallow. “One.”

He rewards me immediately, adds a second finger, stretching me beautifully, and goes back to my clit with his mouth. Slow circles now, deliberate, while his fingers pump in and out, curling on every upstroke to hit that perfect place over and over.

The dual sensation is devastating. I’m climbing again already, faster this time, thighs shaking, breath hitching in short, sharp gasps.

It’s different this time, wet, explosive. My release gushes out around his fingers, soaking his hand, the sheets, the front of his shirt.