31. Juliette #3
He does it again, slower, savoring, and the wet heat of it punches a whimper out of me. “Six years,” he mutters against me, the words vibrating through my core. “Six years I couldn’t touch you like this. Couldn’t taste you. You have any idea what that did to me?”
“I know what it did to me.” My hips try to chase him; he pins them with one forearm and keeps the pace torturous, licking deeper, focused, unhurried. Gentle suction on my clit. The flat of his tongue again. I am already trembling. “Zachary, please-”
He parts me with his thumbs and circles my clit with the tip of his tongue, then pulls back just far enough to speak, lips shining. “Please what? Use your words. You’re done being quiet, remember?”
“Your fingers,” I gasp. My knuckles whiten on the shelf. “I need them inside me. Slow. Like you’re trying to memorize it.”
“I am.” He gives me one finger, thick and slow, sliding in to the knuckle while his mouth returns to my clit.
The stretch is perfect; the way he curls it immediately finds the spot that makes my knees buckle.
He rubs there in lazy circles timed to the flick of his tongue.
A second finger joins the first. He works them in and out with devastating patience, twisting on every withdrawal so I feel every ridge of his knuckles.
Wet sounds fill the narrow aisle. I am dripping down his wrist and the knowledge only makes the ache sharper.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh before licking back through my folds.
His free hand slides up my body, palm rough over my stomach, until he can tug the cup of my bra down and roll my nipple between finger and thumb.
Sparks shoot straight down to where his mouth is working me.
“Soaked and shaking in the middle of your own shop. All those years you stayed silent and now you can’t stop making noise for me.
Do you know how many nights I lay awake wanting exactly this? ”
“I wanted it too.” My voice cracks as he crooks his fingers just so. “Every night. It hurt.”
“I know, Jules.” The endearment is rough with shared anguish. He sucks my clit softly, then eases off when my thighs start to shake too hard. “That’s why I’m not rushing. I want you to feel every second I was denied.”
He keeps me there, balanced on the edge.
Minutes stretch. My world narrows to the heat of his tongue, the slow filthy thrust of his fingers, the occasional brush of his nose when he turns his head to suck marks into my inner thighs.
Every time the coil winds too tight he backs off, breathes against my wet skin, waits until the tremor passes before starting again.
Tears prick my eyes from the overload of sensation and old longing.
“Kiss me,” I beg, looking down at him. “Please. I need your mouth on mine. I need to know you’re right here with me.”
“Not yet.” He says it against my pussy, the words a cruel, delicious vibration, and thrusts his fingers deeper. “You can wait. We both waited six years. You can wait until I’ve had my fill of you.”
“That’s cruel.”
“I almost lost you.” He looks up, eyes blazing, while his fingers keep stroking that spot inside me. “I’m going to take my time proving I won’t again.”
I am chanting his name when he finally seals his lips around my clit and sucks hard at the same moment he crooks both fingers and rubs. The dual pressure lights me up.
“Come,” he orders, voice raw. “Now. Let me feel what I almost never got to have again.”
I break with a cry that echoes off the shelves.
Pleasure rips through me in long, shaking waves.
My thighs clamp around his head and he doesn’t stop - just keeps licking me through it, fingers pumping shallowly until I am too sensitive and trying to twist away.
Only then does he ease out, press one last open-mouthed kiss to my swollen flesh, and rise.
I am still gasping when he cups my face. His mouth is shiny with me. I lean in instinctively.
He turns his head again, and the denial makes a broken sound escape my throat. His hands drop to my hips, tracing the curves there, grounding me even as he withholds.
“Zachary, I swear-”
“Patience.” But his voice has gone hoarse, and the hard line of his cock presses against my hip through his trousers when he crowds closer. He grinds once, slow, letting me feel how thick he is, how ready, and my knees answer before I do. “I said not yet. I want you desperate for it.”
“I am desperate.” I fist his hair, trying to drag his mouth to mine. “I’ve been desperate since the day you walked back into my life.”
His hands tighten on my hips. He spins me so I face the shelf, then pulls me back until I am bent just enough, palms braced on the wood, the lace of my underwear still shoved aside.
Cool air hits wet skin and I shiver. I hear his belt, the rasp of his zipper, the soft curse he lets out when he frees himself.
The blunt head of his cock drags through my folds, gathering slick, teasing my entrance without pushing in. Every pass makes my breath stutter.
“You want this?” he asks, low and strained.
One hand spans my hip, thumb stroking slow circles into my skin; the other guides himself so the head notches and stays there, a promise and a threat.
“You want me to fuck you right here where anyone could have walked in an hour ago? Surrounded by all your pretty words after six years of silence?”
“Yes.” I push back. He lets me take the first inch and then holds me still, the stretch already enough to make my arms shake. “Yes, goddamn it, Zachary. I want all of it. The noise. The mess. You.”
“Then take it.”
He sinks in with one long, controlled thrust that steals whatever air I had left.
The stretch is overwhelming after so much teasing - thick and hot and perfect.
I feel every inch until his hips are flush to me and we both groan.
He stays buried, breathing hard against the back of my neck, one hand sliding around to splay over my stomach as if he needs to feel us joined.
“Okay?” he checks, voice tight with restraint. His fingers flex against my belly, sending another ripple of sensation through me.
“Move,” I demand, pushing back. “Please move. Don’t you dare be gentle now.”
He does. Slow at first, dragging almost all the way out before sliding home again, letting me feel the drag of every ridge, the way my body clings.
The shelf creaks in time with him. Books shift and settle.
One of his hands cups my breast, thumb brushing my nipple; the other stays locked on my hip, pulling me back onto him with every thrust. The wet sound of it is filthy and perfect.
“Harder,” I gasp. “Zachary, I won’t break.”
“You sure?” Anguish and hunger roughen the words. “Because I feel like I might. Every time I’m inside you I remember how close I came to never having this.”
“Then stop remembering and start claiming.” I reach back, nails scraping his thigh. “I’m here. I’m yours. Fuck me like you mean it.”
He gives it to me. The next thrust snaps my hips forward; the one after that makes me cry out.
He sets a rhythm that is pure hunger - deep, pounding strokes that rock me onto my toes and force broken sounds from my throat.
I can hear how wet I am, how easily he slides, the low continuous growl in his chest every time he bottoms out.