15. Emma #2
The sound he makes is low and rough, and suddenly his hands are everywhere: my waist, my back, one sliding beneath my shirt while the other grips my hip hard enough to pull me completely against him.
I slide down his body. My hands go to his belt. Alex catches one wrist.
“Belle.”
“Please.”
His grip loosens immediately. For one second, he does not move. He just stares down at me. Steel-gray eyes edged in blue, gone almost black now. His breathing changes.
“Fuck.”
The floor is unforgiving, but I do not care. My fingers work his belt, his button, his zipper, and then he is in my hand.
Alex’s head falls back against the wall the moment my mouth closes around him. He makes a sound that I feel in my own spine, a groan that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded. I pull back just enough to lick the tip and speak around him.
“Tell me if you don’t want this.”
A broken laugh leaves him. “Belle.”
I kiss him in little teases, not fully giving him what he wants until he answers.
His thumb catches my chin.
“I have thought about your mouth all day.”
My pulse jumps.
“That sounds like a yes.”
“It is a very fucking clear yes.”
I take him as far as I can, hollowing my cheeks, my tongue working the underside, and his hand finds the back of my head. Not pushing. Just resting there, fingers threaded into my hair, like he needs to touch me somewhere, anywhere, like the contact alone is keeping him upright.
“Look at me.” His voice is hoarse, scraped out of his throat.
I do.
His eyes meet mine.
He loses every coherent thought the moment I take him all the way.
His head is tips back, his jaw tight, the tendons in his neck drawn like bowstrings.
His shirt is still perfectly pressed, his tie still knotted, and there is something devastating about that, about being on my knees for him while he is still in his work clothes, still half in the world we are supposed to be pretending does not exist.
“Belle.” He says my name again, but differently this time. Broken into syllables. A warning and a surrender at once.
I do not stop. I take him deeper, faster, and I feel his thighs tense beneath my hands.
His hips move, small, involuntary thrusts that he cannot control, and I love that.
I love that I can unravel him. I love that this man who commands rooms and intimidates people and holds the weight of an empire on his shoulders comes apart in my mouth.
When he finishes, it is with my name on his lips, rough and low, and I take all of it.
He is breathing hard. When I finally pull off, lips wet, he hauls me up as if I weigh nothing, carries me straight through the penthouse and into his bedroom. He throws me onto the bed.
He removes his tie in one fluid motion. His jacket. His shirt, button by button, and I watch the shape of him reveal itself: the broad chest, the flat stomach, the trail of dark hair below his navel.
The rest of our clothes come off in a frantic tangle, my hands helping, his hands stripping, fabric discarded without care. The second I am his hands are on me.
He grabs my ankles.
I gasp as he drags me — drags me — to the edge of the bed like I weigh nothing, like I am something to be positioned and claimed, and my back arches off the mattress. He kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, my legs over his shoulders, and his eyes bore into mine, and I am already trembling.
“Tell me what you want,” he says. His voice is low and rough, and it grazes over my skin like a touch.
“You know what I want.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Your mouth. I want your mouth.”
“Where?”
I make a sound of frustration. “Alex.”
“Say it.”
“Between my legs. I want your mouth between my legs. Please.”
His gaze drops to my core, and whatever was holding him back disappears. Then he leans in.
Steel-gray eyes, blue only at the very edges, look up the length of my body while he licks into me, slow and feather-light at first, then deeper, hungrier.
I try to hold on to his hair, cropped so short there is almost nothing to grip, and the frustration of it only makes me wetter.
My fingers slide uselessly against the dark strands while his tongue circles, presses, thrusts.
He asks questions between long, open-mouthed kisses to my center. I cry out at the sensation.
My hands fist in the sheets. He takes his time. Alex always takes his time with this, which is maddening, and is exquisite. He licks a long, slow stripe and then pulls back just enough to speak.
“Missed me this much?”
I nod, breathless.
“You were waiting for me.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since you left this morning.”
He rewards me with another long lick and scream his name.
“Tell me how it feels.” I cannot even remember my name, let alone form any coherent thought.
Somehow, impossibly, he licks me deeper, and my eyes roll back.
“Is this what you needed?”
I try to answer every one of his questions, voice broken, hips lifting into his face. He is relentless. When the first climax hits, he does not stop; he only holds my thighs wider and keeps going until I am shaking and begging and scratching at his shoulders.
“Alex, please, I’m so close?—”
He makes a sound against my skin, almost a laugh, almost a groan, and then his mouth is on me again, and there is no more talking for a while. There is just the wet heat of his tongue and the pressure of his lips and his hands gripping my thighs, holding me open, holding me still while I writhe.
He finds the rhythm that undo me and stays there. Relentless. Precise. My hips buck and he follows, never losing contact, and I can feel it building again and again, that wave, that crest, and I am making sounds I do not recognize, desperate and high.
“Alex— Alex, I can’t?—”
“You can,” he murmurs against me, and the vibration of his voice pushes me over.
I come again and again in one endless loop, with his name on my lips and my hands in his hair and my thighs clamped around his head, and he does not stop, he works me through it, drawing it out until I am whimpering and pushing at his shoulders because it is too much, too good, too everything.
He rises. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks down at me lying wrecked on his bed, and there is something voracious in his gaze.
He climbs up my body, kisses the taste of me into my mouth, and sinks inside in one smooth, deep thrust. We both go still for a heartbeat, forehead to forehead, hazel eyes locked on steel-gray. Then I wrap my legs around him and urge him harder.
He holds there, buried to the hilt, the weight of him pressing me down into the mattress.
The sudden fullness after the emptiness steals my breath.
I can feel every ridge of him, the thick pulse of his cock where it rests deep inside me, and the stretch is almost too much after how thoroughly he has already taken me.
His hands slide up my sides, slow and smooth, then settle at my hips. He leans over me until his chest rubs the tips of my breasts and I feel the heat of his breath against the side of my neck.
“Still so greedy for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with restraint. One hand comes up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a lazy circle. The other finds the place where we are joined and presses gently, as if reminding us both of how completely he fills me.
I thrust up against him without thinking, a soft sound escaping my throat. He answers with a quiet laugh that vibrates through my spine, then begins to move.
The first strokes are measured, almost reverent, long, slow withdrawals that leave me aching, followed by deep, rolling thrusts that seat him fully again. Each one drags against that same devastating place inside me, the one that made my vision white only moments ago.
“That’s it,” he breathes against my ear. “Take all of me.”
His pace builds gradually, hips rolling in a rhythm that is both controlled and relentless.
The wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the quiet room.
Every time he bottoms out, a fresh spark races up my spine.
I am already too sensitive, too open, and still I push up to meet him, chasing the next crest even as the last one still echoes through my limbs.
“I can feel how close you are,” he says, voice strained now. “Give it to me. One more.”
I am shaking, open-mouthed, the pleasure cresting so high it borders on pain, perfect, blinding, cathartic. When it breaks, it tears through me in long, shuddering waves. My body clamps down around him, pulsing, and a raw cry leaves my throat as the orgasm rolls on and on.
He slows just enough to let me feel everything he is giving me.
This one hits me, and I feel it in my spine—long and electric.
He slows further, kissing me, holding me, making sure I feel all of it.
When I finally come down, he slips out and then, when I am finished riding the wave, he pulls out of me completely. I whimper in response.
I am a boneless mess on the mattress. He is on his knees watching me curiously, and he must see the desperation in my eyes. He is still hard, and I watch him with an intensity I should not have after that many orgasms. I am still not satisfied. I lick my lips. He smiles and reaches for me again.
“Come here,” he says, and he pulls me up and flips me onto my stomach in one motion.
I brace myself on my elbows as he enters me from behind—one slow thrust that fills me completely.
We both go still. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the fullness of it, the rightness, the way my body accommodates his like it was designed for this single purpose.
He feels even fuller and harder than before.
I can feel every ridge of him, the thick pulse of his cock where it rests deep inside me, and the stretch is almost too much after how thoroughly he has already taken me.