Chapter 8 – Noa #3
I grip his jaw, fingers pressing into the rough stubble lining his cheeks. “Please, shut up, Matías.”
His lips part slightly at that, probably to mock me for adding a Please, but I don’t let him speak any further.
I won’t let him twist this, won’t let him turn it into something he can lord over me later.
This is mine. He made me need him. He made me burn.
Now, he’s going to deal with the consequences.
I hold his face in place when I shift higher, until my knees are bracketing his head, my core just inches from his mouth.
His blunt nails bite into my thighs, like he’s the one who needs to brace himself now.
He might need to. Hot air flares his nostrils, and I whine as it fans over my folds.
His throat bobs on a swallow, and I watch, with warmth flooding my face, how his dark gaze flits between my face and what’s in front of him.
Oh, he likes this.
Matías lets out a low groan, the sound scraping against my sensitive flesh. “Fuck.”
I hover just over his mouth, my own breaths turned uneven—but my voice is steady.
“That’s right.” I press my hips closer, coercing.
“You want to be my husband?” I lower myself the last inch, just enough for his lips to brush against my clit.
My lashes flutter. I keep my grip firm, though; keep my power intact.
“Then be my husband. Take care of your wife.”
The growl that rumbles from Matías is a raw, primal thing.
His hands curve against my ass, tipping me forward and wrapping catching on the hinges of my hips, dragging me over the flat of his tongue in a smooth, unforgiving roll he leads.
The first brush of his mouth is fire, is sin, is exactly what I wanted.
He doesn’t hesitate.
My gasp shatters in the quiet of the bedroom and devolves quickly to a whine. I try helplessly to staunch it with the back of my hand.
But his tongue is hot. Wet. Deep. Jesus fucking Christ.
I brace against the headboard, nails scratching at the carved wood as sensation crashes over me in waves.
His growl rumbles against me, laced with little moans that vibrate through every nerve ending his mouth titillates.
He holds me in place, pinned in his grasp, devouring me like he’s been starving for this—like I’m the only thing that could ever satisfy him.
A broken sound slips past my lips. My thighs quiver against the stubble shadowing his jaw, the scrape of it a delicious contrast to the slick warmth of his mouth.
I try to lift up, overwhelmed, needing a second—just one—but he doesn’t allow it.
His fingers flex, digging deeper, an insistent command to stay where I am.
“Matías—” My voice fractures around his name, more plea than protest.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t relent. His response is another low, satisfied groan against me, sending another shudder through my limbs.
His hold is bruising, branding. He wants me to feel this tomorrow, I realize.
To wake up with reminders of his hands, his mouth, the way he’s unraveling me without a single word.
A fresh wave of heat floods me.
I writhe against him feverishly, fighting for control, for some semblance of power, but Matías keeps working me in ceaseless, devastating strokes, chasing every last ounce of resistance from my body.
It’s all I can do to cry to the ceiling, trembling as pleasure unfurls at my center, my own fingers in my mouth to quieten cries that only ratchet in pitch.
He’s going to wreck me. I already know it. And worse—I want him to.
His mouth is relentless.
My fingers tighten in his hair, nails pressing into his scalp as I fight the wave threatening to pull me under.
A fierce and demanding ache that builds with every stroke of his tongue.
I can hear myself—shaky breaths, broken cries, my pulse pounding in my ears—but it’s nothing compared to him.
The way he groans against me, like he’s lost in it, like he needs this as much as I do.
A whimper escapes me. His hold tightens in response.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, voice thick with satisfaction. “Don’t hold back.”
I let out a choked sound, half frustration, half surrender.
He chuckles, the vibration of it sending a fresh shiver down my spine.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He stays right there, pulling me deeper, dragging me closer, until I can’t think, until I can’t breathe, until I am nothing but sensation and fire and him.
The pleasure crashes over me in waves—piercing, all-consuming, ruinous.
I shatter with his name on my lips, my fingers tugging mindlessly at his hair, my body shaking against his hold.
He doesn’t let go, doesn’t let up, savoring every second, every pulse, every breathless cry as he keeps me there, suspended, undone.
It takes forever before I can find the strength to lift myself, to pull away from his wet, swollen mouth.
My limbs are weak and leaden. My heart is still racing as I meet his gaze.
Matías looks at me like he owns me.
Because he does.
And I hate how much I like it.