22
Aura
The tenderness lasted until his mouth found mine again.
Then it broke open, not into anger, but into something deeper—a raw, possessive hunger that stripped the last of my thoughts away.
His hands moved over me with purpose now, mapping skin he hadn’t been allowed to touch freely, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my hip, the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
Each touch was a brand, a promise, a reclamation.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and liquid in the lamplight. “I want to eat you.”
The words were low, filthy, and direct. They sent a shockwave of heat straight through my core.
I could only nod, my throat tight.
He moved down my body with a slow, deliberate grace that felt like torture.
His mouth trailed a path of fire over my stomach, his stubble scraping lightly, deliciously, against my skin.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my leggings and the thin cotton of my underwear beneath them, looking up at me for one more silent question.
“Please,” I whispered, the word ragged.
He pulled them down my legs, his hands firm and sure, and tossed them aside without looking. The cool air of the room hit my heated skin for a second before he settled between my thighs, his broad shoulders pushing my legs wider.
He didn’t dive in. He looked.
His gaze was hot, heavy, utterly focused on the part of me that was already wet and aching for him. The visual alone made me squirm, a soft, desperate sound escaping my lips.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. “Soaked for me already. Just from me talking, from me looking at you like this.”
He leaned in, not touching me with his mouth yet, just breathing me in. The warmth of his breath against my most sensitive skin was maddening.
“Easton,” I gasped, my hands fisting in the sheets.
“Tell me what you want, Aura.”
“I want your mouth.”
“Where?”
“On me. Please.”
“Where on you?” he pressed, his voice a dark, teasing rumble. “Use your words. I need to hear it.”
“You know where,” I pleaded, arching my hips.
“I know.” His thumb brushed lightly over my clit, and I jerked. “But I want to hear you say it. I want to hear that pretty voice beg for my tongue on your cunt.”
The crude word, spoken in that low, possessive tone, shattered the last of my restraint. “There. On my pussy. Please, East, just taste me.”
A low groan vibrated from his chest. “Fuck yes.”
Then his mouth was on me.
The first touch of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke from my opening to my clit, slow and thorough, like he was savoring the first bite of a meal he’d been starving for. A broken cry tore from my throat. His hands slid under my thighs, lifting me, holding me open for him as he feasted.
He was relentless. He licked and sucked with a focused intensity that drove every coherent thought from my head. His tongue circled my clit, flicked over it, then pressed against it with firm, steady pressure that had my back bowing off the bed.
“Fuck,” I sobbed, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, not pushing, just holding on.
He hummed against me, the vibration shooting a bolt of pure lightning up my spine. “So sweet,” he growled, his words muffled against my flesh. “Taste like heaven. Always did. Drove me fucking insane, knowing how you tasted, knowing I was the only one who got this.”
He slid a finger inside me, then two, curling them expertly, finding the spot that made me see stars. His mouth never left my clit, sucking it gently between his lips, his tongue working in wicked, rapid circles.
“Easton, I’m—” The warning was a shattered gasp.
“I know you are,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with my arousal. “I can feel you clenching around my fingers. You gonna come for me? Gonna come on my tongue like you used to?”
“Yes,” I whimpered, my hips rolling helplessly against his face.
“Then come.” His voice was a dark command. “Let me feel it. Show me you’re still mine.”
The combination of his words, his fingers, his mouth was too much.
The orgasm ripped through me, violent and consuming, tearing a raw, screaming cry from my lungs.
My body convulsed, clenching rhythmically around his fingers as he kept his mouth on me, drinking down every shudder, every pulse, until I was a trembling, oversensitive mess.
He gentled his touch, lapping softly as I came down, his fingers still moving inside me with a deep, possessive rhythm. He kissed my inner thigh, then looked up at me, his chin wet, his eyes blazing with triumph and heat.
“Beautiful,” he said, his voice wrecked. “Fucking beautiful.”
He crawled back up my body, his weight settling over me again. He was still fully dressed from the waist down, the hard ridge of his erection a blatant, urgent pressure against my thigh. He kissed me, deep and filthy, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
The kiss was a claiming. It was dirty and perfect.
When he pulled back, he was breathing hard.
Before I could process what he was doing, he rolled onto his back, pulling me with him until I was straddling his hips. He looked up at me, his hands settling on my waist. “Take what you need.”
I understood. My own need was a sharp, renewed ache between my thighs. I shifted, my hands going to the button of his jeans. My fingers trembled, but I got them open, then dragged the zipper down. He lifted his hips, helping me shove his jeans and boxer briefs down just enough to free him.
His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the head already flushed and wet. My mouth watered. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking him once, twice, feeling him jump in my grip.
“Fuck, Aura,” he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
I leaned down, my braids brushing his stomach, and took him into my mouth.
The taste of him—salt, skin, pure male heat—flooded my senses. I moaned around him, the sound vibrating along his length, and his hips jerked off the bed.
“Oh, fuck yeah—suck me,” he hissed, his hands coming up to cradle my head, not forcing, just holding.
I took him deeper, relaxing my throat, using my tongue to press along the sensitive vein on the underside. I remembered what he liked. The slow, deep sucks followed by a tight swirl of my tongue around the head. The way he loved it when I looked up at him through my lashes.
I did it now, pulling back until just the head was in my mouth, sucking hard as my eyes met his.
His gaze was locked on me, dark and hooded, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked. “Look at you,” he rasped. “Perfect fucking mouth. Knew it was made for this. Knew you missed it.”
I hummed in agreement, taking him deep again, my hand working the base in rhythm with my mouth. Pre-cum leaked onto my tongue, bitter and perfect.
“Just like that,” he encouraged, his voice rough as gravel. “Take it all. Show me how much you missed my cock.”
I increased my pace, bobbing my head, using my hand to twist on the upstroke. Saliva dripped down my chin, and I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the ragged sound of his breathing, the way his fingers tightened in my hair, the low, filthy praises falling from his lips.
“You suck my dick better than anyone,” he grunted. “Always did. Knew you were a goddamn natural. Knew you loved having me down your throat.”
I did. I loved the weight of him, the taste, the control, the way I could make the strongest man I knew come completely undone. I hollowed my cheeks, sucking harder, my other hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently.
He cursed, a long, low stream of filth. “Yeah, just like that. Play with them. You remember how sensitive I am there. Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last. Your mouth is too good.”
I didn’t want him to last. I wanted him to lose it. I wanted to taste his release, to have him come apart because of me. I redoubled my efforts, my throat working, my hand moving faster.
“Aura, I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained.
I looked up at him, holding his gaze, and took him as deep as I could, swallowing around him.
That was his undoing.
A guttural roar tore from his chest as he came, his hips lifting off the bed, his release pulsing hot and bitter down my throat. I swallowed every drop, milking him with my mouth and hand until he was shuddering and spent, his grip in my hair going lax.
I released him slowly, licking him clean with soft, kittenish strokes until he flinched from oversensitivity. Then I crawled back up his body, collapsing beside him on the bed.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the soft patter of rain against the window.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at me. His eyes were soft, sated, full of a wonder that made my chest ache.
He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “You’ve got a little…”
I laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and wiped my chin with the back of my hand. “Yeah. I know.”
He pulled me into his arms, my back against his chest, and buried his face in the crook of my neck. His body was warm and solid and completely relaxed against mine.
“I love you,” he murmured into my skin, the words sleepy and utterly sincere.
“I love you too.”
We lay there in the quiet dark, tangled together in my bed, the past finally beginning to loosen its grip, the future—messy, complicated, and ours—waiting just beyond the rain-streaked glass.