“Tell me exactly what you’re begging for,” he prompts, his voice a gravelly scrape.
I reach down, covering his hand with mine, urging him lower. “You know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
He slides his hand inside the silk, his fingers finding the damp heat of me. I jump at the contact, my breath hitching as he finds exactly where I’m most sensitive. He starts a slow, agonizingly steady friction, his eyes locked on mine, watching every flicker of pleasure and ruin across my face.
“You’re so loud for someone who likes to play it cool,” he murmurs with a husky laugh, his thumb catching a rhythm that has my vision blurring. He leans in, his chest crushing mine, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Now, Quinn, do you still think you’re in control of this?”
His hand hooks into the lace of my underwear and tugs, the fabric yielding with a soft snap of elastic. He doesn’t just remove them. He strips them down my legs with a focused, hungry efficiency that leaves me completely exposed against the cold wood of the table.
I’m reaching for his belt, my fingers frantic, but he holds me down, catches my wrists and pins them over my head against the tabletop. The wood is hard and unforgiving against my skin, but his body is a wall of heat pressing into me.
"Not yet," he says, his voice thick and rasping. "I’m not done looking at you."
His eyes rake over me, from the flush on my chest to the way my thighs are trembling. He lets go of my wrists, but I don’t move. I can’t. He steps back just an inch, enough to drop to his knees between my legs. He grips my thighs, his fingers digging into my skin as he pulls me right to the edge of the table, hooking my knees over his shoulders.
The first brush of his breath against my inner thigh makes me gasp, my fingers curling into the edge of the table.
"You’re so ready for me," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting over my damp skin. "Look at what you’ve done."
Then, he stops talking. He leans in, his tongue tasting me with a long, slow stroke that starts at the base and curls upward. I cry out, my hips bucking instinctively, but he holds me still, his grip on my thighs unyielding. He’s methodical, his tongue flat and heavy, swirling over the sensitive peak of me until my vision starts to blur at the edges.
"God, please," I moan, my head tossing back.
He ignores the plea and takes his damned sweet time. He sucks the small, hardened center of me into his mouth, his teeth grazing me just enough to make me hiss, before his tongue takes over again in a fast, flicking tempo that has me sobbing his name.
Then he reaches up, his fingers finding the heat he’s created, sliding two of them deep inside me while his mouth never leaves its mark. Its almost too much, the stretch of his fingers and the wet, suctioning pressure of his lips working in perfect, agonizing sync.
"Look at me," he demands, pulling back just enough to see my face, his chin slick, his eyes dark with a predator’s satisfaction. "Tell me how it feels."
"I'm... I'm going to—" I can't even finish the sentence. My muscles are coiling, a tight, frantic knot of tension building in my lower belly that’s seconds away from snapping.
"Do it," he growls, his tongue returning to the spot with a sudden, sharp intensity. "Come for me."
The knot in my belly snaps. It’s a sudden, violent release that starts in my toes and surges upward, centering entirely where his mouth is anchored. My back arches off the table and a cry rips from my throat as the waves of pleasure hit.
He doesn’t pull away. He drinks in every tremor, his tongue heavy and insistent, milking the last of the shudders out of me until my legs give way and I’m a boneless heap of heat and static.
He lingers for a heartbeat, his breath hot against my damp skin, before he finally sits back on his heels. He looks up at me, a dark, smug satisfaction written in the line of his mouth. "Dangerous, remember?" he mocks softly, reaching for his belt.
The haze in my brain clears instantly. The challenge in his voice is the spark I need.
Before he can stand, I lunge.
I catch him off guard, my hands hitting his shoulders and pinning him back against the floor. I scramble off the table, my nakedness a weapon now, not a vulnerability. I straddle his chest before he can recover, my knees locking him in place.
"My turn," I whisper, the word sharp and dangerous.
I don't give him time to protest. I move down his body, my hands moving with a frantic, expert speed. I make short work of his belt, the leather snapping as I pull it free. I rip at the buttons of his fly, the sound of denim straining filling the quiet room.
He groans, his hips jumping as I peel the fabric away, exposing him to the cool air and my hungry gaze. He’s hard, straining, and the sight of his pulse thrumming at the base of his length makes my own blood catch fire again.
I lean over him, my hair draping over his thighs like a silk curtain, shielding him from everything but me. I wrap my hand around him, squeezing just enough to hear his breath hitch in a broken rasp.
"You talk a lot for someone who's about to lose his mind," I murmur, my lips ghosting over the very tip of him, catching the bead of moisture there.
I watch his eyes blow wide, his hands reaching out to grip my hair, his knuckles white with the effort of not pulling me down. I hover there, the heat of him radiating against my face, my tongue just a fraction of an inch away from the ruin I’m about to cause.