16. Layla #2
“I don't want slow.” I nip at his jaw. “I've waited long enough. Since the festival, since the rooftop—weeks of working with you. I'll combust if we go any slower.”
He cuts me off with another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding. His hand slides up my thigh, over my hip, coming to rest just below my breast.
“Please,” I breathe against his mouth.
“Tell me what you want.” His thumb brushes the underside of my breast through the lace. “Like last night. Tell me exactly what you need.”
Heat floods my cheeks, but the darkness in his eyes makes me brave. “Your mouth. Like you promised.”
His smile is wicked. “I did promise that, didn't I?”
He moves down my body with deliberate slowness, pressing kisses to my sternum, my ribs, the sensitive skin of my stomach. His hands work the clasp of my bra with practiced ease.
“Bennett,” I gasp as his mouth closes over one peaked nipple.
“Shh.” He lavishes attention on both breasts until I'm squirming beneath him. “I'm being thorough. You like thorough, remember? ”
“I'm going to die from thorough.”
“No.” He continues his downward path. “You're going to come from thorough. Multiple times, if I have my way.”
His fingers hook into my underwear, sliding them down and off. The cool air makes me shiver, or maybe it's the way he's looking at me, like I'm a feast and he's been starving.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, hands parting my thighs. “Even better than I imagined.”
“You must have a pretty shitty imagination then.”
His gaze darkens. “The opposite. I’ve been imagining this for weeks.
Every damn day.” He presses a kiss to my inner thigh.
“During meetings. On conference calls. That video chat where you wore the cream blouse? I had to turn off my camera because all I could think about was this. But the reality... It’s better than anything I ever pictured. ”
His mouth finds me with one deliberate stroke, then pulls back just as I arch toward him.
“Patience,” he murmurs against my inner thigh, pressing kisses everywhere except where I need him most.
“Bennett, please?—”
“Weeks, Layla.” Another feather-light touch that makes me whimper. “I'm not rushing now.”
He takes his time learning me. A gentle exploration that has me gripping the sheets. Every time my breathing hitches, every time I get close to the edge, he eases back. His fingers trace patterns on my thighs while I try to catch my breath.
“You're torturing me,” I gasp.
“I'm savoring you.” He proves it with another slow stroke that stops just short of where I need it. “There's a difference. ”
By the time he finally slides one finger inside me, I'm so sensitive that even that gentle touch has me crying out. He stills, letting me adjust, watching my face with dark satisfaction.
“So responsive,” he murmurs. “Do you know how desperate I've been to know what you taste like?”
He builds the rhythm gradually, his mouth and fingers working together until I'm trembling. But just as the pressure coils tight, he slows again.
“Please,” I beg, beyond pride now. “I need?—”
“You'll get it.” He adds a second finger, curling them just right, but keeps the pace maddeningly slow. “When I decide you're ready.”
The authority in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat through me. He reads my response and increases the pressure, building me higher...
Then stops completely.
“No!” The protest tears from my throat. “Bennett, please, I can't?—”
“Yes, you can.” He presses a kiss to my hip bone, fingers still inside me but maddeningly motionless. “You're so beautiful like this. Desperate. Trembling for me.”
“I hate you,” I gasp, but we both know it's a lie.
“No, you don't.” He curves his fingers just slightly, enough to make me whimper but nowhere near enough. “You hate that I'm making you wait. There's a difference.”
“Why?” The word comes out broken. “Why are you?—”
“Because I want to remember this.” His thumb ghosts over my sensitive flesh, the barest touch. “Every sound. Every shiver. The way you look right now, coming apart for me.”
I'm beyond words, reduced to pleading sounds as he starts again, so slowly I could cry. This time he watches my face intently, learning exactly how close he can take me before...
He pulls back again.
“Bennett!” It's half sob, half demand.
“Once more,” he promises darkly. “Let me take you to the edge once more, and then I'll give you everything.”
True to his word, he builds me up again with devastating precision. My entire body coils tight, every nerve ending screaming for release. This time when I reach that precipice, when my thighs start to tremble and my breathing goes ragged, I brace for him to pull away again.
But he doesn't.
“Now,” he commands against me. “Let go for me, Layla. Now.”
The orgasm hits like a thunderclap, so intense after all the denial that my vision whites out.
I arch off the bed, his name tearing from my throat in a sound I don't recognize.
Wave after wave crashes through me, each one stronger than the last because he doesn't stop, doesn't ease up, just holds me at that peak until I'm sobbing from the intensity.
“That's it,” he murmurs, gentling his touch only when I start to shake from overstimulation. “So perfect. So worth the wait.”
I'm still trembling with aftershocks when he presses one last kiss to my inner thigh and slowly withdraws his fingers. My body clenches at the loss, too sensitive and not ready to let go.
Only then does he crawl back up my body, pressing kisses to my hip, my ribs, the valley between my breasts. When he finally reaches my mouth, I can taste myself on his lips .
“Still hate me?” he asks, eyes dark with satisfaction and his own need.
I can barely form words. “Ask me... when I can... feel my legs again.”
His laugh is low, pleased. “That's one.”
Through my post-orgasm haze, I blink at him. “One?”
“Orgasm. I'm keeping count.” He shifts his weight, and I become aware of how hard he is against my thigh, how much his control has cost him. “That phone call was quite specific about multiples.”
My body clenches at the promise in his voice, aftershocks still rippling through me. Oh god. He's going to destroy me completely.
And right now, I’m OK with that.