Chapter 18 Layla
Layla
I don’t mean to beg, but apparently my body does it for me.
His shoulders wedge under my knees, and the bedspread is rough beneath my palms, and I can’t decide if I should look down and watch his mouth or throw my head back and let every sound in my chest fall out . . .
Oh God, It Feels so Freaking Good.
So good.
My thighs tense against his head, and he hums, the vibration lighting up every nerve ending I own. The sound shoots straight through me.
One long.
Lazy.
Lick.
The sucking. His fingers. It’s too much to take.
His forearms slide under my thighs to hold me open, and I swear that grip is a whole religion. Secure. Possessive. Worshipful. He pins me down, sucking harder on my clit.
I am high.
Floating.
He finds the exact pressure that makes my knees try to climb his shoulders. He makes it worse—in the best way—by breathing me in between strokes, murmuring something I don’t catch because my pulse is loud in my ears.
My thighs tremble around him. Quake.
Just like he wanted . . .
A slow curl of his fingers—inside—turns my breath ragged. He drags along that place again, patient and cruel and perfect, and the ceiling blurs at the edges.
Yes.
There.
Right there.
I try to hold still. I fail. My hips tilt for him, offering, pleading without words. His palms flatten over my hips to steady me, and he seals his mouth to me like he’s drinking from the source.
Stars.
Yes . . .
Oh God, yes . . .