Chapter 40
Clarke blushes and tries to eel away. “Julian, you—I—”
He hooks his hands behind her calves and tugs, bringing her ass to the edge of the cushion and spreading her thighs to either side of his shoulders. She’s wearing a skirt (Elemental-branded, of course); it rucks up around her legs, exposing a lot of skin to Julian’s heated gaze.
“I want this,” he says plainly. “I want to put my mouth on you. I want to feel you come on my tongue, and I want to hear my name on yours when you do. Do you want that?”
Holy shit. His words, so bold and unselfconscious, stoke the fire in her spine.
It flares through the rest of her body, bringing every nerve ending to life.
She digs her fingers into the couch cushion so she won’t reach for him, clinging to rational thought.
“We’re in your prep room, Julian. Your team is in the garage! ”
He skates his fingertips up the outsides of her legs, pushing the hem of her skirt a fraction higher on her thighs. “Only a few of them. We’re at home; we don’t pack up until tomorrow. And you can be quiet, can’t you? For me?”
This is how Clarke dies. With Julian Casperi on his knees in front of her, touching her, saying things straight out of the fantasies she’s been having for longer than she’d like to admit.
His palms glide away. Clarke’s hips buck without her permission when the touch retreats, chasing the contact, lifting off the cushion. His hands return in a flash, slipping under her skirt, tracing all the way up until he can hook his fingers in the waistband of her panties.
He looks up at her, pupils blown wide. “Yes or no, Maddie?”
Clarke’s going to pop out of her skin. There are reasons not to do this, but none of them seem to matter much at the moment. Not enough to outweigh the sheer want that’s burning her up from the inside out, at least.
She looks him in the eye. “Yes.”
He pulls her panties down. Props her feet on his thigh to get them off her legs. Discards them somewhere on the floor. Gets his palms on the insides of her knees and presses gently, spreading her out so he can get close again.
Clarke doesn’t do passive. Not once she’s made up her mind. Not when there’s something she wants. She reaches down and lifts her skirt out of the way, flipping it up to her waist.
Julian stares for a long second, barely breathing, then glances up at her face. “Tell me if I do something you don’t like.”
He lowers his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss to her clit.
“Saints,” Clarke gasps out, arching her back.
He laughs, the vibration singing through her in a symphony, and slides his strong hands up around her ass to pin her in place.
There’s a hint of stubble on his cheeks, and it scrapes the sensitive skin of her inner thighs as he settles in to mapping her out with a dedication she honestly should’ve expected.
It’s been a while since Clarke’s had sex, and longer still since anyone’s gone down on her.
She hadn’t quite forgotten how good it is, how all-consuming it is, how everything else falls away when someone who knows what they’re doing and likes doing it is between her legs, but has it been this good before?
She’s quaking in what seems like less than a minute.
Julian dials it back, shifting to light flicks of his tongue. She can feel his smile against her skin when she writhes to get more. “Getting impatient?”
“Shut up,” Clarke complains. There’s an edge up ahead, and she desperately wants to go over it. She slings one knee over his shoulder and tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling lightly, trying to get him back to where she wants him. “Keep going.”
“But I like making you squirm. I’ve been thinking about it. Dreaming about it.” He licks a long, slow strip up her center, stopping to swirl his tongue around her entrance and groan at the taste. “And this is my reward.”
“You are—the—worst.” Clarke gets the words out between breaths. Every touch feels shattering. Every heartbeat pushes her closer to the brink.
“Tell me more about how terrible I am,” he says, slipping a hand beneath her elevated leg, trailing his fingertips along the sensitive crease where ass meets thigh, holding her steady when she jolts at the sensation.
He draws a finger up through her folds, gathering wetness on the way before drawing lazy circles around her clit.
“Tell me more about how terrible my fingers are, specifically.”
Clarke twists, seeking. “Need more—evidence.”
“A hands-on demonstration. Of course,” Julian says, enjoying himself, and slides two fingers into her.
Clarke remembers that she needs to be quiet at the very last second, and bites down hard on her bottom lip while her awareness narrows only to the feel of his fingers in her body.
Julian holds still for a second, letting her adjust, but Clarke doesn’t need it.
There’s pressure and stretch, but saints know she’s wet enough for this.
For more than this. She rolls her hips experimentally, seeing if she can catch the heel of his hand against her clit.
“Your request is noted,” Julian murmurs, and starts moving his hand as he puts his mouth on her again.
It’s too much. It’s perfect. It’s everything. Clarke is made up entirely of sparks of light, and they are congregating into something raw and powerful. “Julian. Julian, please.”
“Just like that,” Julian encourages, his breath hot and the edges of his teeth nearly enough to send her spiraling. “My name, just like that.”
His voice hitches. She looks down—and isn’t that a sight, his head between her thighs, his eyes flicking up to her face—and sees the shoulder of his free hand working as he jerks himself off.
She wants to comment, but the rhythm of his tongue and the curl of his fingers change, and she can’t find coherent thought again for a good ten seconds. Then he changes it up again, and again.
She braces herself and uses the grip she has on his hair to pull his head back a little. “Do you have a checklist?”
He blinks placidly, docile under her hands. “Of places and ways I want to fuck you? Yes.”
“No, of—you do? Of—no, Julian, of—of techniques, that you’re trying out on me.”
“Oh. Of course,” he says, shameless, and crooks his fingers into a spot that makes Clarke’s vision go sideways. It draws a needy whimper out of her, and he smiles, satisfied. “I’m figuring out what you like best. I think I’m doing a very good job, don’t you?”
He looks unbelievably hot, sitting back on his heels with one fist wrapped around his dick and his other hand lifting Clarke closer and closer to a peak.
He’s fully clothed except where his pants are pulled down just enough for access.
He’s flushed, all up his neck and jaw. His hair is a disaster. His mouth and chin are wet.
Clarke has never wanted someone so much in her life.
Docility doesn’t last long for Julian Casperi. He dives back between her legs and ramps up his efforts. Clarke is mush, Clarke is starlight, Clarke is an inferno, Clarke is almost almost almost—
She falls apart with a scream she stifles in her elbow, every muscle in her body bursting into confetti and melting into a puddle.
Julian gentles her through it with easy thrusts of his fingers, then pulls them out and seals his mouth over her entrance instead.
He works himself to orgasm with his tongue lapping at her, his free arm wrapped around her back to keep her from escaping even as she whines with oversensitivity, like he needs the taste of her to find his own release.
He comes into his hand and collapses, boneless, forehead against Clarke’s inner thigh.
They stay like that, catching their breath, Clarke absently working tangles out of his hair while wondering how she’s supposed to be normal after this.
She gets why Julian had this as a boundary before.
Clarke’s had her fair share of casual sex. This wasn’t that.
He rouses himself eventually and staggers off to the bathroom.
There’s the sound of running water, presumably as he washes his hands, and then he reappears with a damp cloth and his dick back in his pants.
He holds the cloth out to her but appears to short-circuit halfway through the motion, eyes locked on where her skirt is still flipped up.
Abruptly self-conscious, Clarke goes to cover herself. He lets out a wordless noise of displeasure and is on her before she can straighten out the fabric, which he shoves upward again as he uses his body to tip her sideways and lay her out on the couch.
He plants himself on the cushion as well, next to and above her, caging her in. He kisses her, open and filthy and messy—she can taste herself on his tongue—and drives his fingers into her again.
Clarke’s dazed, still recovering from her orgasm and trying to catch up with all this rapid motion.
Her body jackknifes, both her hands going to clasp the tattooed forearm attached to the fingers grinding into her.
He lets her arms move, but holds the rest of her down, wrapping one of his legs over hers to keep her open.
He looks down at her, arm working in even motions. “Is this okay?”
Clarke is nothing but sensation. Nothing but contact. “Overstimulated. Julian—Julian—”
“I know,” he says, almost apologetic. “But one wasn’t enough. I need to see you come again. Like this, riding my fingers. Can you?”
He slows, just enough for her to think. “People are going to be looking for you.”
“They can wait.”
“You’re very—ah—” Clarke breaks off when he flexes his wrist to coax her hips into action. “Demanding.”
He kisses her again, shallower than before but no less thorough. “Oh, Mads. You have no idea.”
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