10. Juliette #2
Still, my body moves before my brain can protest, and I lift my arm from where it rests above my head, my fingers shaking slightly as I reach for him.
His jaw tightens, and his eyes are burning, but he doesn’t pull away.
I curl my hand around his and guide it down, until it’s resting against my collarbone, my pulse fluttering beneath his palm. “Touch me,” I whisper.
He does.
His hand skims across my chest and up to my throat, his fingers lightly wrapping around it like a necklace.
I press my legs together to stem the ache blooming between them, but I don’t move. I can’t .
Every nerve lights up under his touch, like my skin has turned electric.
His other hand traces from my fingertips where they’re still resting over my head, and along the length of my arm in one slow, reverent sweep, making me shiver.
He keeps going, down the curve of my shoulder, over the top of my chest, and then lower, until he’s ghosting across my breast. My breath catches, and I arch toward him without even thinking, needing more.
“ Fuck ,” he murmurs.
His grip around my throat tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me he’s there, and his other hand cups me fully, palming me through the thin layer of my shirt, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he does, like he’s barely holding himself together.
His palm slips from my neck and moves down my stomach, slow and possessive, until his fingers tease the edge of my waistband.
There’s a pause. A moment of hesitation, of our eyes meeting; a question in his, and permission in mine.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice low. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it,” I practically beg.
And then he’s there . His thick fingers beneath the fabric and cupping me where I’m begging for him the most.
I moan, and his eyes flash, his fingers exploring.
“Does that feel good?” he rasps.
“So good,” I reply, biting my lip.
He presses harder, slow circles against my clit until I’m throbbing and swollen and aching for him to fill me.
“ Goddamn , you’re soaked.” His tone is awed. “Is this all for me, Little Rose?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “ God , yes.”
He dips his head, his lips brushing against my jaw as his fingers move slow and teasing, just enough to make me pant.
“You’ve been driving me crazy since the moment I saw you. Walking around like you don’t know how fucking sexy you are.”
I gasp, clutching the fabric of his shirt.
His mouth grazes my ear. “You’re going to let me make you come, right here on this couch, with my hand on your pussy like the filthy girl you are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I breathe out again, because apparently, it’s the only thing I can say.
“Tell me what you need,” he growls, his voice raspy.
“You, I need your fingers,” I plead, heat spreading beneath my skin. “Put them in me.”
He listens, sliding them from my clit down to my entrance and dipping them inside, and then before I can even think , his mouth crashes against mine, hot and demanding, his lips pulling a gasp from my throat.
He takes full advantage, slipping his tongue in and tangling it with mine like he owns my breath now, too.
He tastes like trouble , and temptation, and whatever this tension is that’s been crackling between us since the second we met.
It’s teeth, and tongue, and hunger, and I fist the front of his shirt like he’s the only thing anchoring me on Earth.
He groans low in his chest when I bite down on his bottom lip, and the sound reverberates through me.
His free hand moves to frame my face, his thumb brushing over my jaw, and the contrast of his mouth being desperate and his touch being reverent is dizzying. I tilt my head and deepen the kiss, and when I suck his tongue, it’s like a dam breaks.
Suddenly, we’re not just kissing anymore, we’re devouring.
He finally pulls away, his fingers curling deep inside me, and his palm pressing with the perfect amount of pressure against my clit and moving in slow circles.
“You feel so good,” he says. “So soft. So wet.”
I arch into him, every thought dissolving except how he’s finger-fucking me within an inch of my life, and how is it possible that no other man has made me feel as good with their cock as he does with his hand?
“I’ve wanted this since the second you opened that smart little mouth on that cliff,” he murmurs. “Thought about what you’d sound like. How you’d taste.”
I whimper. “You’re such a liar.”
“I am.” He smirks. “But not about this.”
His thumb circles my clit in slow, devastating strokes. “Don’t go quiet on me now, baby. Let me hear you.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can .”
My head falls back, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t stop.”
His mouth finds my neck, his teeth dragging across the skin there, and the tension coils tight, heat spreading up my legs, wrapping around my back and squeezing into my chest.
My pussy pulses around his fingers.
“That’s it. Just like that,” he praises. “Give it to me.”
I do. I let go, shuddering beneath him as waves of white-hot pleasure crash through my body and retreat only to surge back and drown me all over again.
He holds me through it, his fingers moving gently now, his lips soft as they brush my cheek, like he’s keeping me steady in a violent storm.
I’m trembling as I come back down, aftershocks rippling like a current, and he has a dazed look on his face.
There’s something visceral and desperate in his gaze, and he takes his fingers from inside me and brings them up, sucking them into his mouth and then groaning at my taste.
Jesus.
I shoot forward, reaching for him, my hands fumbling with his waistband, a sudden desperation taking over me like I’m possessed. I need to return the favor. Want to feel his thick cock resting on my tongue, his grip in my hair, his moans in my ears.
He’s hard as I slip beneath his gray sweatpants, palming him over his boxers, and his breath is ragged, his eyes locked on mine with a fierceness that makes my stomach clench.
“Little Rose,” he starts, attempting to bat my hand away.
“I want to,” I argue, rising on my knees until my lips brush his jaw. I stroke him through the fabric, and he pulses in my hand. “Let me make you feel good.”
Another pull, and his dick jerks again. His features contort in pleasure, and he hisses through his teeth, muscles tightening.
“Wait,” he says, his fingers catching mine.
I pause, blinking up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
A pained look crosses his face, like he hates himself for stopping me.
Honestly, I kind of hate him right now for it, too.
“There’s something you should—” he starts.
This time, it isn’t me that cuts him off.
It’s a knock on the door.