Chapter 11 Annabelle
Annabelle
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit . . .
He’s not doing anything yet. Just . . . lingering. Kissing. Nuzzling. Breathing like he has all the time in the world and I’m some kind of dessert he wants to savor slowly, one spoonful at a time.
Oh God. Is he smirking? I think he’s smirking.
Here I am—flat on my back, legs spread like a sacrificial offering to the gods of incredibly poor judgment. What if I make a weird sound? What if I don’t make any sound and he thinks I hate it?
What if he—holy shit, did he just groan?
Yup. That was a groan. That was a “this is so good I’m losing my mind” groan, and it came from him. My knees twitch involuntarily, and I slap a hand over my mouth to keep myself from making any sounds.
Maverick. Callum.
I don’t know what to call him right now, but I want . . .
I want . . .
He spreads me with his fingers, shouldering my knees apart as he settles in. There’s a beat of silence. Tension? That agonizing pause like the moment before a roller coaster drops, which is why I hate them in the first place.
And then—
He puts his mouth on me. Lips, tongue. A slow, deliberate kiss that makes my hips jump. His tongue follows, a languid stroke that melts my spine and sends every coherent thought scrambling for cover.
So. Fucking. Good.
“Oh my God,” I say. Aloud. Out loud. Not in my head. Definitely not in my head.
He licks again—just the tip of his tongue, a teasing sweep—and I swear I see stars.
Stars!
He’s not rushed. Not frantic. He’s methodical. Like he’s exploring me. Learning me. My fingers twist in the sheets. My breath stutters. And when he does it again, slower this time—tongue curling with maddening precision—I nearly levitate off the freaking bed.
Maverick makes a low sound of approval, grip tightening on my thighs, holding me exactly where he wants me. I feel him smile against me. Cocky bastard.
I press my hand to my mouth again, but it’s useless—I gasp anyway, a sound I’ve never made in my entire life, one that definitely wouldn’t pass for polite, but damn, does it feel good . . .
He shifts on the mattress, hands digging beneath my ass, lifting my pussy closer to his face, going in hard.
Devouring me.
Holy . . .
Shit.
Oh my . . .
God.
I . . . I . . . what’s my name?
Annabelle, you lucky bitch . . .
Maverick sucks, thumb creeping closer to my ass, pressing into the crack. Dirty, dirty boy. It feels amazing. So, so good, I forget for a second that we’ve not known one another long, and who the hell gives a shit? He is so hot. His mouth is . . .
His mouth is relentless—lips, tongue, teeth, like he’s hell bent on ruining me for all future pleasure. My back arches off the mattress again, a strangled sound tearing from my throat as his name tumbles out like a prayer. Or a curse.
“Maveri—”
He shakes his head. “Callum.”
Callum. Ahh. I see. That is what he prefers when we’re being intimate.
“Callum,” I moan.
He hums against me like I’m the one testing his patience, like I’m the one driving him to the brink. My thighs try to close around his head on instinct, but his hands tighten, keeping me open, exposed. His to savor.
“You’re killing me.” My voice is breathless.
“Killing you?” he repeats, removing his mouth for a split second, cocky smirk visible in the storm-lit dark. “I’ll stop if you ask me to, but only if you ask nice.”
Like hell. Don’t you fucking dare . . .
If this is what he’s like with his mouth, I’m going to need a moment of silence for my entire nervous system.
“Don’t stop.”
When he laughs, it’s low in his chest. “That’s what I thought you were going to say.”
His mouth returns to my body with devastating precision, every stroke of his tongue dragging me further .
. . higher . . . until the edges of my vision blur.
My fists clutch the sheets, nails tearing into cotton like they’re the only anchor holding me here.
He’s unhurried. Taking his time, enjoying himself, savoring every tortured sound that leaves my throat.
I can feel him smiling against my thigh.
“God, that feels so good,” I gasp.
“Good.”
Good? Good?
My vision is nothing but white-hot sparks!
If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was getting a sex-induced ocular migraine, lungs forgetting how to function.
I swear my soul could slip free and he’d just keep going, dragging me apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the frantic beat of my heart.
“Please . . .” I whine. Whisper.
I feel him smile again. “I love it when you beg.”
I shake my head; I never beg.
He pulls his mouth away.
He crawls up over me slowly, predator sure, bracing his weight on his forearms so his mouth hovers just above mine. The mattress dips as he cages me in. Every breath he exhales brushes across my lips, and I realize—he’s giving me a choice. A pause.
Do I want more than just his tongue on my pussy . . .
The answer is immediate. Reckless. Certain.
“Yes.”
He lifts his head just enough to search my face. “Okay?”
“Please.” No hesitation. Not even a bit . . .
I swear the simple, practical intimacy of being in this moment with him does something unruly to my chest. He’s so fucking hot.
“Look at me,” he whispers as he guides himself to me, the broad head nudging where I’m already desperate. He waits one breath—two—like he’s giving me time to reconsider what we’re about to do, and of course I don’t, because I want him to screw me senseless.
And then he glides inside.
Heat. Stretch. That glorious, mind-blanking slide, where every thought leaves my brain and my body.
I am putty in his hands.
Blissfully limp beneath him as rain beats down at the windowpanes. He sets a lazy tempo, one palm sliding up my torso to cup my breast while the other braces itself next to my head. His thumb strums across my nipple, the sensation ricocheting straight down to where we’re joined.
“Keep doing that,” I quietly demand when he pinches lightly.
Maverick tells me I’m perfect. That I feel like heaven. I’m hot. Tight. That if I keep squeezing him like that he’s not going to last, and the sexy whispered words send a shock wave through my already oversensitized body.
“Touch yourself,” he tells me. I comply, sliding a hand up my stomach and over my other breast so he can watch. I clench my muscles around him tighter, tremors rippling through me in a series of pulses. He groans.
I moan.
So, so good . . .