Chapter Fifty-Six
Xavier
Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer like there’s any space left to close. There isn’t. Everything is the heat of her mouth, the pressure of her body against mine, the way she kisses like she’s already decided this is happening.
I should stop. I’m not stopping.
She breaks away enough to breathe, her forehead against my jaw, and I feel the shudder run through her. “This is a bad idea,” she says, voice low, already ruined.
“Yeah.” The word comes out rough. I don’t move. Neither does she.
Then her hands are on my shoulders, turning me, spinning me around so my back is to the counter now, so she’s the one pressing me into the edge.
The wood digs into my spine. I don’t care.
She pushes me harder against it, her body flush against mine, and I feel the hard line of her hipbone, the softness of her stomach, the pressure of her thigh between my legs.
She pulls back. Her eyes are dark, fixed on mine, and she drops to her knees. Her eyes never leave mine.
My pulse kicks hard. Her fingers work my belt, the buckle, the button beneath. Methodical. Deliberate. She’s thought about this. The realization lands somewhere between my chest and my throat and stays there, hot and sharp.
I don’t help her. I don’t stop her. I grip the counter edge behind me and feel the wood grain bite into my palms while she pulls my cock free.
The first touch of her mouth is heat, wet, and immediate.
My head drops back, smacks hard into the cabinet behind me.
The sound is loud in the quiet house. I don’t care.
She’s not tentative. She’s not careful. She’s taking what she wants and the sight of it, her mouth on my cock, her eyes closed, her hands braced against my thighs, shorts everything out.
“Ruby.” Her name slips out. I didn’t mean to say it.
She pauses. Looks up. Her lips are swollen, wet, glistening, and something in my chest squeezes at the sight. I want to touch her. I don’t move my hands from the counter.
She takes me deeper, and my vision narrows to the point of her shoulder, the curve of her neck, the way her breath hitches around me. The rhythm she sets is relentless. I’m not in control of this. I should be. I’m not.
My hand moves before I decide to move it. Tangles in her hair, not guiding, just holding, grounding myself in the softness of it while she works me with her mouth and her hands and the occasional scrape of teeth that makes my hips jerk forward.
Too fast. Too much. I tug, meaning to slow her down, and she makes a sound against me that vibrates through my cock, my spine. My grip tightens. She doesn’t pull away. She takes more.
The coffee mug sits on the counter beside us. The one I filled for her the morning I left and walked out like the night before didn’t matter. The ring of ruby red lipstick on the rim. The chip on the handle from where it got knocked against something.
I know how she takes her coffee. I know the sound she makes when it’s too hot. I know too much, and I’m still here, still letting her pull my orgasm up my spine with her mouth and her relentless patience.
I’m close. Too close. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, my balls tightening, and I tug her hair again, sharper this time. “Stop.” The word comes out rough, desperate. “Ruby, stop–”
She doesn’t. She works me harder, faster, her hand joining her mouth, and I feel the wet heat of her tongue sliding along the underside, the tight suction at the tip, the way she takes me deep into her throat and holds, swallows around me.
My hips jerk forward without permission as light flashes in the distance.
She doesn’t flinch. She takes it, takes me deeper, and I feel her moan around me, the vibration traveling straight to my spine.
Another flash of light strikes through the sky.
Realization hits. A storm is coming, and it’s not just outside.
“Stop,” I say it again, more force, and my hand in her hair tightens, pulls back gently but insistently. “Now.”
She pulls back slowly, reluctantly, her lips dragging along my shaft until I’m free of her mouth. She looks up at me, eyes dark, unfocused, her face flushed, her lips swollen and wet with me, and the sight of her like that, wrecked and wanting, tears through the last of my restraint.
My legs are shaking as thunder rattles the cabinets, barely in control. I grip the counter harder, feel the wood dig into my palms, the vibration of the impending storm, and I don’t look away from her. I can’t.