Chapter Nineteen
MARC
Isettled myself between her thighs and felt more than heard the hitch in her breath—that sharp little intake she probably didn’t even know she made. Her back arched off the mattress like her body was already answering a question I hadn’t yet asked.
Good.
My hands cupped her hips, and I dug my fingertips into her soft skin, taking a moment to appreciate the lush roundness of her curves and the subtle scent of her and the barest trace of lavender.
She shivered.
“Delaney,” I whispered softly, but kept my voice firm. “I plan on breaking you apart with mind-numbing pleasure, then slowly putting you back together piece by piece tonight. Are you good with that?”
She nodded emphatically.
“And I’m going to trace over every inch of your body with my tongue until I’ve memorized what makes you shake, shiver, and moan. What drives you crazy and makes you scream.”
“Yes to all of those things,” she replied in a breathless whisper.
“Choose a number from one to five.”
Her eyes fluttered open. Those dark green eyes that had been driving me insane for months, were now heavy-lidded with suspicion. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”
“You didn’t listen earlier.” I kept my voice even, like I wasn’t already losing my mind down here. “Pick a number. To determine your punishment.”
“Fuck,” she muttered. Then, “Four. What are you going to do, spank me?”
I laughed—actually laughed, low and genuine, because of course that’s where her mind went. “No. We’ll save that conversation for another night if you’re interested. But since this is our first time together, I’ll let you choose.”
“Between what?” The suspicion had sharpened into curiosity.
“I can edge you four times and only let you orgasm on the last one.” I watched her face. “Or I can give you four orgasms.”
She groaned like I personally offended her. “The orgasms. Obviously the orgasms. Four! Marc, who would choose the other thing—”
She was about to learn that either was a double-edged sword. “Stay still,” I said, “Or I will stop.”
Her legs trembled with the effort of trying to comply. I could feel the tension in her thighs, the way she was fighting her own body for control. The sight of her working that hard—to be still, to be good for me—hit me all at once.
Focus.
“Please.” Her voice came out lighter, a little strained. “Please, Marc. I need you. Do something, anything.”
“I like hearing your pretty lips beg me.”
I pressed my mouth to the inside of her thigh—the thick, soft part that drove me crazy. I bit down lightly, just enough, and when she gasped and rolled her hips, I filed that away.
Slowly, I licked toward the crease where her thigh met her hip, then stopped. Felt her frustration spike before she made a sound.
“Kingsley,” she growled.
Just my last name. Those two syllables put me on notice, and it took genuine effort not to abandon this plan entirely.
“What, Hart?”
“Touch me. Please. For the love of God—your hands, your tongue, your nose for all I care—”
I pressed my face into her hip to hide my grin.
Only Delaney. Only this woman would be negotiating intimacy like she was filing a complaint with management.
I placed a single kiss to the top of her pussy, and her whole body tightened in anticipation.
Part of what I wanted—the thing I’d been turning over in my head since we began—was to take her completely apart.
To make her feel so thoroughly looked after that she had no room left for that sharp-edged armor she wore most days.
I wanted her boneless. And I wanted it to be my doing that caused it.
I ran one finger slowly through her seam and felt her inhale and hold it.“You’re so fucking wet, Delaney. Such a good girl.”
At my words, she whimpered, and more of her wetness slid from her entrance.
I started lightly—barely touching, tracing slow circles around her clit without landing directly on it, watching as her hips rose to chase the sensation.Then I blew a breath, soft and warm, over her. She shuddered so hard her thighs jerked toward my head.
I stopped.
“Marc. Why?” She drew out the word.
I pressed my forearm across her lower stomach and held her down.
“Marc—”
“Unless you’re asking me to stop, which I will, stay still, Delaney.
” She made a sound that was half frustration and half desire.
I took that as my cue. I worked her slowly—reading the flex of her stomach muscles, which she tried to keep to a minimum, the way her breathing changed pitch, adjusting to the pressure the way she’d been showing me without knowing.
Harder when she went quiet. Lighter when she gasped.
Back and forth until she was shaking and her hands were fisted in the sheets.
When she was past words, I sucked her clit into my mouth, and she let go with a long, loud moan.
Her thighs locked around my head, and her back arched so high I thought it might crack, and she said my name—not Kingsley, not a complaint, just “Marc”—in a voice I’d never heard before.
I stayed with her through it, keeping my touch feather-light while she came down, her whole body still trembling in small waves. Then I shifted—let the circles give way to long strokes, from her entrance to her clit, building the tempo so gradually she almost didn’t notice until—
“Oh God.” Breathless. Wrecked. “I don't know if I can. I’m too sensitive.”
I raised my eyes to her. Her hair was messy. Her eyes were glassy. She appeared exactly like what she was—a woman who had come apart and was about to do it again.
“You can,” I said. “And you will. That was only one. You have three more to go.”
She made a sound that was half relief and half disbelief, and I had to press my smile into her thigh to hide it.
“As your reward for listening—” I traced my thumb through her, coating it in the warmth still pouring from her, then brought it up to circle her swollen clit in slow, deliberate strokes, “—this time you don’t have to hold back.”
“Oh, thank God,” she let out a breath.
I worked her until her hips were rolling again, then drew my finger down and rimmed her entrance, taking my time, circling until her whole body was straining toward me.
“Please.” Her voice had taken on a rougher edge. “Marc. Inside me. Please. My pussy is so empty and I need to feel your fingers.”
There it was. Not a negotiation—just need, stripped of every sharp edge. I added this interaction to the Delaney File knowing I’d be thinking about it for a long time.
“Because you did an excellent job telling me what you wanted …” I slid one finger in and heard her exhale like she’d been holding her breath since she last spoke. Then I added a second, feeling her adjust around me. Then a third.
“Still good?” I asked, watching her face.
“So fucking good,” she murmured. “Don’t stop.”
I didn’t. I worked her slowly at first—deep, curling strokes—until she started to chase the rhythm, her hips snapping up to meet me. Every time she moved, I matched her, let her set the tempo, felt the moment she stopped thinking and just started feeling.
Every twist of my wrist. Every curl of my fingers.
She was unraveling one layer at a time, and I had nowhere else in the world I wanted to be.
My cock was so hard it was practically ready to punch itself through the mattress. My hips moved on instinct, matching her rhythm, trying to get relief from the built-up tension until I forced myself to stop.
Tonight was for her. Not me.
I lowered my head and added my tongue—this time a figure-eight, slow loops around her clit, and she went rigid.
“Fuuuuck. Yes. There—”
Then I found the spot—the one that made her whole body arch like a bow—and pressed in steady and sure until she broke. “Oh my God, Marc. Right there. Right there. Right—”
The scream that came out of her was not quiet. Good thing I didn’t have neighbors who cared. Not that I minded, but she might have.
Her muscles locked around my fingers, abdomen shaking, back lifting off the mattress, and I held her through all of it—stayed with her, kept the pressure constant, rode out every pulse until the big waves gave way to small ones and the small ones gave way to trembling, and the trembling softened into something loose and wrecked and beautiful.
She tugged at my hair. Not gently.
I lifted my head. “Two,” I said.
She shuddered as I eased my hand free, watching me the whole time with that hazy, undone expression that was doing things to my self-control I wasn’t going to act on.
“Two?” she managed.
“Two down.” I held her gaze and drew my fingers slowly into my mouth.
Her eyes widened just the tiniest bit.
I swirled my tongue, tasting her release. Imprinting her scent and her taste onto me.
I wasn’t going to forget this.
“Two to go,” I said, my gaze holding hers.
“Why is that so fucking hot?” she asked with a moan.
I grinned and didn’t answer. Some things didn’t need explaining.
Slowly, I began kissing my way up her body. Her hip first—where I learned she liked a little bite—and then the soft curve of her stomach, which she didn’t move to cover.
Earlier, when she undressed, I’d seen a second of hesitation in her eyes. Not shame. Not embarrassment. But a blaze of defiance. Like if I didn’t want her body with each roll, dip, lump or bump, I could just fuck off.
I had no interest in being that guy.
“You couldn’t be more perfect than you are right now,” I said, pressing my lips to the center of her stomach. “Never will I take for granted that you’ve allowed me to honor your body as it was meant to be worshiped.”
My nose trailed upwards, finding the stretch marks low on her belly—a pale cluster against her flushed skin—and I dragged my teeth slowly along them. Felt her breath catch. Felt her go very still—the particular stillness of someone waiting to see what you’ll do next.
I took my time. Brought my lips to each one. Let her feel that I wasn’t passing through on the way to somewhere better.
This was where I wanted to be.