11. Robin
Robin
I laugh when she says it—“Take off your clothes, darling, and I’ll show you for hours”—because it’s so outrageously her . But I’m already wriggling out of my clothes. The hotel suite feels suddenly too warm, too small to contain everything that’s swelling in my chest.
“Slowly,” Eva says, voice low and velvet. “Make me enjoy it.” She rests back against the couch, spreading her arms across it, claiming the space like she’s about to claim me.
I stall, then obey—because that’s what I want .
I want her enjoyment of me as much as I want her to make me come.
So I move more slowly. I fold my shirt instead of dropping it. I slide my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and ease them down with a little roll of my hips that makes her amber eyes darken to molten chocolate.
This kind of submission, with her, isn’t like sinking. It’s like floating. Like the moment your body remembers how to let the water hold you.
It’s what I need .
She doesn’t touch me yet. She sits back, watching every movement hungrily. It’s the kind of attention that could make a girl blush and hide; once it did. Now? It makes me stand taller. Makes me feel beautiful. Wanted.
Desired.
“Come here,” she says finally, and when I do, she takes my hands in hers, turning them palm up, rubbing her thumb tenderly across the bandages.
A flicker of fear scrapes through me—wrists, zip ties, the warehouse—and then she lowers her head, kisses the inside of my palm carefully, avoiding the gauze, and repeats it with the other.
“I will never hold you here,” she murmurs. “Not until you tell me you’re ready.”
It lands warm in my chest, a promise of care and consideration. “Oh, I’ll tell you when I want it,” I say with a smile.
“Good girl.”
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way those words affect me. How they go hot and fast all the way down, like a shot of whiskey.
She rises at last, slow as a tide, and when she presses against me I feel the whole of her, body and soul, silk and heat, and all those sharp edges that turn liquid against me.
She kisses me—hungry, claiming—and I open for her like I always do, greedy for the taste of us.
Her hands skim my sides, pausing when she hits the bruises on my ribs, and I can feel her restraint like a leash she holds on herself.
“I’m okay,” I whisper against her mouth. “And I want you.”
Her pupils flare. “I know you do,” she says, like she can smell it on me. Maybe she can.
Her jacket is off; her blouse follows. I undo the last few buttons because it pleases her to have me do it. I push the fabric off her shoulders and kiss the pale, perfect skin I uncover.
And then I remember something that used to make me furious: how she’d keep me wanting when it came to her pleasure.
How there was that stretch of time where she wouldn’t let me do more than enjoy what she gave me.
How she held back, wouldn’t let go with me, because she wanted to maintain complete control.
“Eva,” I say on a breath. “I want to taste you.”
She knows why I’m saying it. I can tell by the way her eyes sharpen and then soften, the way something almost like shame shivers through them and is gone. She combs a strand of hair back from my face, fingers lingering at my temple.
A beat of silence, charged. Then she smiles, slow and wicked. “Since you asked like a good girl, I will grant your wish,” she says. “But I want you comfortable.”
Before I can ask what she means, she guides me—gentle but insistent—backward until the backs of my knees hit the wide armchair. She presses lightly on my shoulders and I sink down into it, my pulse racing. The cushions cradle me, soft and supportive, and I look up into her beautiful face.
“You look perfect there,” she murmurs, tracing my jaw with her fingertip. “You deserve a throne, little bird, not a cage.”
Slowly, deliberately, she plants one knee on one armrest, then the other, bracketing me in. She perches with feline precision, thighs caging my head, and the world tilts. My mouth goes dry as her scent floods my senses, hot and intoxicating.
“Is this what you want?” she asks, voice husky.
“Yes. God, yes.”
Her fingers slide into my hair, guiding me closer until her pussy is lined up directly with my mouth. “Then take me, little bird. Show me how much you want it.”
The feel of her thighs around my face, the way she’s poised over me—it should feel crushing, but it doesn’t. It feels like trust. Like worship. Like she’s giving me something she used to hoard behind walls of ice.
I lean forward, tongue out, and taste her. My moan vibrates against her and she gasps, her hips twitching. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t ration herself.
She lets me have her.
And God, does she taste good.
I lick a broad stroke up her slit, ending with a flick over her clit, and the sound she makes has me squirming in my seat, worrying that I’m going to soak the cushion through.
But then I forget all about that as she grinds down against me, the weight of her heavy and delicious, and I lose myself in the rhythm.
In the give and take. The way she shudders when I take her clit between my lips.
The way she moans my name when I lick her just right.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me closer. She’s using me, letting herself be selfish, and that knowledge is as intoxicating as her taste. I press harder, opening my mouth wider, drinking her in.
She rides me slowly at first, testing, then with more urgency as I match her rhythm, sucking and teasing until she’s trembling above me. I look up at her through my lashes, her breasts quivering as she moves, her face tipped down to watch, her amber eyes blazing into mine.
“You love this,” she says on a gasp.
I nod against her, which makes her gasp.
It’s not subservience, what I feel. It’s devotion.
Worship. The difference matters, and she seems to feel it in the way her hand gentles in my hair even as her hips move harder, the slick press of her cunt against my mouth becomes more insistent.
I moan into her and the vibration drags a curse from her lips.
She tries at the last second to pull back, to stretch it out, but I refuse her with my mouth, with the little sounds I make, with the way my gaze holds hers and asks for her.
Let me have this. Let me have you.
“Robin—” My name cracks from her lips as her body tenses. I slide my tongue just right, press harder, and she breaks. Her orgasm rips through her in shudders, her thighs clamping briefly against me, her voice a raw sound that makes my whole body clench in sympathy.
She stays a moment, breathing hard, then eases back, sliding down from the chair arms until she’s standing before me again. Her hair’s a little wild, her cheeks flushed, and she looks like something I dreamed.
“There was a time you wouldn’t let me do that,” I remind her.
Her smile is slow, dangerous, tender. “I was a fool.” She leans in, kisses me deep, tasting herself on my lips. “Never again.”
And then she presses my legs gently open and slides gracefully to her knees.
“I don’t kneel for anyone, little bird,” she tells me with a sly smile. “But I will for you. Now, come here.” She tugs me to the edge of the chair. “It’s your turn.”
She kisses the inside of my knee and then the other.
When her mouth finally closes over me, I feel it everywhere.
It’s like a fuse that’s been waiting since the warehouse, since the moment they dragged a hood off my head and the world turned dark and awful.
The first long pull of her mouth on me isn’t just pleasure; it’s relief that spools tight in my belly and then loosens, a knot coming undone.
She’s patient with me, which is almost cruel. Her tongue is gentle at first, exploratory, then focused and clever; her fingers slide inside me only when I’m slick and aching for them, and she curls them in a way that makes my hips jerk and my eyes fly open like she asked.
“Good girl,” she says when I do, and the praise tips me closer to the edge than her mouth does. Tears sting my eyes unexpectedly. Not sad, not scared—just full. Overfull.
“Say it,” she orders softly. “Say what you want.”
“You,” I gasp, unashamed. “I want you, Eva. I want—please, more, please?—”
She gives me more, two fingers becoming three, her mouth tightening around my clit in a steady rhythm that makes me babble.
I’m already close just from having her taste on my tongue, but it feels unfair and perfect to be hurtling toward the end so fast. I try to hold on—I always do—but she hums against me and whatever willpower I had burns away.
“Look at me,” she murmurs against my flesh, and I do, and then I’m coming—hard, bright, shattering—while her eyes hold mine like a lifeline.
The orgasm sweeps through me in deep waves, and I ride them gratefully, breath panting out on each crest. She doesn’t stop until I plead with her to stop—the taste of her still on my tongue, her mouth still on me, the world narrowed to a point of light we made between us.
When she finally eases back, she doesn’t leave me empty. She pulls me over to the couch, arranges my now-tired limbs into her embrace. “I do believe I have done what I set out to do,” she says with satisfaction. “I’ve fucked you into oblivion.”
“Again,” I say into her hair, half-laughing, half-serious.
She chuckles. “Greedy.”
“For you.” I nip her shoulder. “Yes.”
She smiles, but then says lightly, too lightly, “I pulled at your hair a little harder than I meant to. I hope I didn’t hurt you?”
“Only in the ways that heal,” I tell her. “This—” I squeeze her fingers. “—this makes it better. It makes the bad memories less loud.”
Her throat works. She looks suddenly, exquisitely young—like the girl she must have been before power taught her how to be steel. “I don’t deserve you,” she says, which is a thing I’ve heard from her before, but tonight it isn’t a shield. It’s just a naked thought.
I take her face in my hands—palms, not wrists—and make her look at me. “That’s not yours to decide,” I say. “It’s mine. And I choose you.”
She kisses me again, and when it breaks, I’m actually laughing. The sound is a little wild around the edges, but it’s joy, mostly.
“You’re quiet,” she says after a while, stroking my hair with long, idle sweeps.
“Thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Probably,” I agree. I tilt my head back so I can see her. “When we’re at the castle…we can do this there, right? Not just the sex.” My mouth quirks. “The choosing. The…taking care of each other.”
Something complicated moves across her face. “I want to try,” she says. “I want to make space for you. For them. For us. But there are still matters that will pull me away from you. Work that needs to be done, if I’m going to mold the Consortium into my new vision.”
I hear the weight in that promise—the ghost of responsibilities and men in suits and decisions that ripple across continents. “I know,” I say softly. “And that’s alright. I’d like to help wherever I can, though, if you’ll let me.”
“You already do help.” She kisses my forehead. “More than you know.”
We lie like that until the rhythm of her breathing turns hypnotic. My bones feel warm and heavy and aligned in a way they haven’t in too long. The bruises still exist. The bandages are still real. The world is still dangerous.
But my body remembers another truth now: that pleasure can overwrite pain, that trust can live where terror used to, that surrender can be a way back to myself.
Eva has given me that gift, precious and priceless.