Chapter 16 #3
I took him into my mouth as far as I could without triggering my gag reflex, breathing through my nose, the heft of him filling me better than any word.
One hand wrapped around the base to keep the rhythm even, the other sliding to cup the weight of his balls, rolling them gently in my palm, giving counterpoint to the suction of my lips.
I drew back slowly, slicking him with saliva, then plunged down again, tongue flattened, pressure constant.
The wet sounds were obscene in the kind of way that made my core clench—obscene because there was nothing concealed about what I wanted to give him.
“Devon,” he said, rough as gravel. “Svetoch, yes.”
I pulled off enough to breathe a laugh against his shaft as saliva dripped down, then dragged my tongue down the underside, following the thick vein, to my hand.
I licked my palm and fist until both shone, then wrapped them around him in a corkscrew, stroking as my mouth played at the head—suck, swirl, push past the ridge, release.
He cursed in Russian, the syllables like little knives I wanted him to keep throwing.
I glanced up, because half the pleasure was written on his face, and I didn’t want to miss any part of it.
His eyes were barely open, pupils blown wide, lashes low.
His mouth was parted, fangs just kissing the bottom lip, a glint of white danger that made heat flood my belly.
A muscle in his jaw jumped with every bob of my head.
When I swallowed around the crown and hummed, his hand tightened in my hair, just enough to remind me that restraint was a choice he’d made and could unmake at any second.
The idea made me wetter than was decent.
“Bozhe,” he said again, voice gone low and desperate. “What you do to me, little angel.”
“I want to give you everything,” I said, lips barely moving around him, then sank down deeper, shallow-throated at first, just to test my own limits.
The weight of him pressed at the back of my tongue; I eased a breath out, let my throat relax, took him another inch.
My eyes watered. I didn’t stop until my gag reflex flickered like a tripwire; then I backed off with a filthy, satisfied sound I hadn’t known I could make and stroked him with both hands, mouth lewd and greedy at the tip.
He was close. I felt it in the way his thighs tensed under my palms, in the little tremor that started low in his belly and climbed.
He put one hand flat on the back of the couch, like he had to brace himself against something he couldn’t fight.
He looked down at me in that same instant, and whatever he saw there pulled a groan out of him that felt like surrender.
“Devon,” he warned, breath staggered. “I am—”
I didn’t let him finish. I sealed my mouth over him and used my hands and lips together, all the way to the base, up to the head, twist on the upstroke, hollow my cheeks, again, again, sucking harder, taking him just past where comfort flirted with edge.
His teeth sank into his own lip. His head fell back.
He swore again, my name scattered in the wreckage of his control, and then he was coming—hot and thick across my tongue in pulses I could count with my fingertips on his thighs.
I swallowed like it were sacrament. All of it.
He groaned, head tipped back, throat exposed, hands flexing uselessly because there was nothing to hold on to that would save him from the fall.
I eased him through every spasm, gentling my mouth and hands until the tension bled out of him and he was just a man who had let a woman who loved him undo him because his pleasure meant more to her than her next breath.
When I finally let him slip from my mouth, he was already watching me again—hunger not sated so much as banked.
I licked my lips slowly, because I liked the way his eyes went darker when I did, then crawled up the smooth plane of him in kisses.
His lower belly, where muscle cut hard lines I’d mapped with my hands and teeth.
The hipbone that made me think of altars.
The long sweep of his chest, the old scar that bisected it, the nipple I caught briefly between my teeth just to hear that hiss between his clenched molars.
The column of his throat smelled like rain on stone; I pressed my mouth there for a heartbeat and felt the thread of something wordless hum like a plucked string.
By the time I reached his mouth, his hands were already in my hair, cradling my face.
He dragged me in and kissed me like he wanted to taste his own ruin on my tongue.
I let him. He gentled it after a moment, like he couldn’t help checking that I was all right even when he was the one who’d been stripped to the nerve.
He drew back an inch, thumb sweeping along my jaw, eyes blazing with a softness that would have made me cry if I hadn’t already been dehydrated by want. “What am I going to do with you, svetoch?” he asked, and the endearment fell like a velvet noose I happily shoved my neck into.
I smiled against his mouth, breathless and sure. “Everything,” I said.