Chapter Eleven - Lira #2
His other hand skims down the side of my body—slow, testing, reverent. I feel the tremble start in my knees as his fingers trace the line of my waist, my hip, the dip where my chest refuses to release.
And then... I give in.
My hands move without permission, curling around his neck, dragging him closer like I need him to breathe. His arms lock around me as he lifts me off the floor, holding me to him, walking me backward until I feel the edge of the bed hit the backs of my thighs.
His mouth never leaves mine. His hands are frantic and controlled all at once , fingers threading through my hair, down my spine, cupping my ass as though he already knows every curve by heart.
He tastes like heat and fury and something dangerously addictive, and when his teeth graze my lower lip and pull—fuck—I moan, helpless and loud against his mouth.
He kisses me like it hurts to stop.
He breathes into me, lips slanting, tongue flicking deep, teasing mine until I chase him. His hand cradles the back of my skull, fingers threading through my hair, tugging it just enough to expose my throat, and his mouth moves.
And then—
I break.
I shove him back, breathless, flushed, straddling him now, the satin comforter whispering beneath my knees as I press him to the bed.
“You think you can just do this to me?” I gasp, clawing at his shirt.
I shove at his shoulders, flipping him under me, the sheets twisting beneath us. My knees lock around his hips as I sit up, staring down at him—at the dangerous calm in his eyes, like he knows this will happen all along.
My hands are shaking as I reach for his shirt.
Each button comes undone slowly.
His chest rises and falls with the pace of a man restraining himself. My body shudders as I peel the shirt open, dragging my fingertips across bare skin. My lips follow. Kissing. Sucking. Breathing him in.
He smells good. Like wood and heat and something male enough to make my thighs clench.
My mouth opens over his collarbone, dragging down to the center of his chest. I kiss his sternum, his ribs, the thick line of muscle that leads downward, and every time my lips touch him, his fingers curl tighter into the sheets.
I haven’t been with anyone in years.
I have forgotten how it feels to want like this. To ache. To need.
I spent so long wrapped up in Mico’s indifference, locked in a longing that never gives me anything back. I forget what it is to be touched, devoured, seen. And now this man—this arrogant, infuriating, perfect nightmare—is turning me inside out with just his presence.
I pull away from his body, chest heaving, mouth tingling from where I’ve just devoured him. His shirt lies discarded, and the rise and fall of his breath has quickened, muscles twitching beneath flushed skin as he watches me.
But I don’t crawl back into his arms.
I stand.
The room is quiet save for the sound of my own breathing and the faint creak of the floor under my bare feet. My pulse thunders. Every inch of my skin feels lit from within.
And I walk—slowly—toward the wall.
I can feel his eyes following me, can practically taste the shift as I reach out and pluck the lace blindfold from its velvet tray.
The blindfold slides easily between my fingers.
He sits there, half-reclined against the pillows, arms braced behind him, chest bare and gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat. His pants still ride low on his hips, belt unbuckled. The zipper lies undone, just shy of exposing him fully. One shift and I can see everything.
His eyes follow me as I approach.
I don’t speak. My hand rises—slowly, deliberately—and extend the blindfold to him. He doesn’t move for a beat; head tilted like he is reading something in my silence.
Then—that smile.
That fucking cocky, wolfish curl of mouth. It could break me in half. Instead, it only makes something lower in my stomach pull tight.
He raises both hands, palms up in mock surrender. “You sure you know what you’re asking for?”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
I climb into his lap, straddling him. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t rush. He just lets me tie the lace over his eyes, knuckles brushing against his temple, fingers slipping into his hair as I tighten the knot behind his head.
His breathing deepens.
So does mine.
With the blindfold in place, he looks almost unreal.
Head tipped slightly back, long dark hair falling in loose waves around his shoulders, mouth parted in stillness.
His jaw is a thing of cruel geometry. Sharp cheekbones.
Collarbones like carved stone—and I see now, just under his left side, a long, thin scar slashing diagonally toward his heart.
Something in me twists.
I lean forward, lips hovering over that line of raised skin.
I kiss it.
My tongue flicks against the edge before I move higher, tracing a path up his throat to the edge of his jaw. He sucks in a breath. His hands stay at his sides.
I shift back, dragging my hips over the ridge in his pants, feeling how hard he already is. He growls. I smile. And then—my hands go to his waistband.
I peel everything off him.
His belt slithers off with a soft hiss. Pants tugged low over muscular thighs. He shifts, lifting his hips just enough, and his cock springs free—hard, flushed, glistening at the tip. I watch the way it twitches as I crawl backward, watch his jaw tighten when I don’t touch it.
I let my fingers drift up his stomach instead. Trace the line between his abs with my nail. He flinches when I scrape over the scar again—just a twitch—but I see it.
Another smile blooms on my face before I lean in and press my lips to his again.
This time, the kiss deepens like a body plunging into molten waves, consuming, endless.
His mouth parts for me, urgent, tongue sweeping against mine in a dance of wet heat and barely leashed hunger.
My fingers claw into his hair—thick, damp, heavier than sin—and I yank, tilting his head back to expose the taut line of his throat.
I devour him, lips dragging down the column of his neck, tongue tracing the frantic pulse beneath his skin.
I linger at the jagged scar on his collarbone, sucking until salt and musk flood my senses, my thighs quivering with a need that claws at my core.
His groan rumbles through me, low and guttural, as I bite gently, teeth grazing the edge of that scar.
My hands, desperate, find the hem of my dress, the fabric clinging to my sweat-slick skin.
I peel it off, the material catching on my hips, damp from where our bodies have fused.
With a slow, deliberate shimmy, I free myself, letting it pool on the floor like a shed skin.
Naked, I crawl toward him, knees straddling his hips, my bare skin burning, oversensitive, every nerve sparking where it brushes against him.
His cock, hard and straining, presses against the soft flesh of my inner thigh, a promise that makes my breath hitch.
My fingers weave back into his hair, tugging as my hips roll forward, teasing, the head of his cock catching against my drenched folds.
The friction sends a jolt through me, sharp and electric, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan.
He groans into my mouth, the sound raw, vibrating against my lips as I lick the corner of his mouth, sucking his bottom lip between my teeth.
I scrape lightly, just enough to make him shudder.
I want him unraveling, gasping, every fiber of his being screaming for me.
My hips grind harder, deliberate, coating him in my slick heat, teasing him until his restraint frays.
My thighs tremble as I climb higher, hands splayed across his chest, his skin searing under my palms, slick with sweat and taut with muscle.
I lean down, kissing the scar over his heart again, softer this time, my tongue tracing the faint ridge, tasting salt and iron and him.
His chest heaves, and I feel the tremor in his body, the way he fights to stay still beneath me.
I rise up on my knees, my hand slipping between us, fingers wrapping around his cock—hot, thick, pulsing. I guide him to my entrance, the tip nudging against my soaked folds, slick and ready. I pause, breath catching, my body suspended in that agonizing moment of anticipation.
Then—I sink down.
Slow. Deliberate. Inch by agonizing inch, his cock stretches me, filling me with a burn that’s almost too much.
My cunt clenches, gripping him as I take him deeper, my spine trembling as I bottom out, impaled, shaking.
He gasps beneath me, head thrown back, the blindfold pulling tight across his eyes as his mouth opens in a silent, shattered cry.
I stay there, rooted, my body quivering around him, every nerve alight.
Then I move. Slow, grinding rolls of my hips that drag low curses from his throat, his fingers clawing into the mattress as he fights to hold himself together.
My hands slide down his chest, nails raking lightly, leaving faint red trails as my moans splinter into the air.
His mouth finds my breast, blind but ravenous, teeth grazing my nipple as I ride him, my body drenched in sweat, thighs burning with the effort of each deliberate thrust. His lips chase my gasps, kissing my neck, my collarbone, my mouth—hungry, relentless, as if he could consume every sound I make.
His hands still don’t touch me, bound by some unspoken rule, but his mouth is everywhere, wet and desperate, leaving trails of fire across my skin.
I lose myself. The rhythm falters, my body moving on instinct, the slick, obscene sound of my cunt swallowing him again and again filling the room. My thighs shake, my breaths come in ragged bursts, and I lean forward, whispering against his ear, voice hoarse and barely my own: “I want to see you.”