23 #3
My brows crease at the next line, too explicit to make it to my mouth.
I don’t know if he truly expects me to keep reading or if this is another test he’s conducting.
My mouth opens, closes, searching for a way to—
His arm returns to my waist, dragging me completely into his embrace.
A sound punches out of me as my shoulder hits the hard wall of his chest and heat breaks against me like a tidal wave. The book betrays the shudder of my hands.
‘I thought…’ My voice comes out thinner than intended. ‘I thought you weren’t comfortable with contact.’
‘I’m not comfortable if I don’t know it’s coming or if I don’t allow it,’ he says. ‘Read.’
The word isn’t a word as much as a growl, feral enough to make me obey on instinct.
I look at the sentence again and take a deep breath in an attempt to wrench my senses from him. But all I can feel is the strength in his body, its warmth. And other things.
On a shaky breath, I continue. ‘When she—’ My voice breaks just as he finds that devastating spot beneath my ear again, his mouth threatening to leave a kiss there.
My breath holds until I start seeing spots, then I let the words out with it.
‘When she claimed his tip, it slipped past her tongue with a streak of the fruit’s essence.
She took him to the root and revelled in the pained sound that rolled out of his chest. As she pulled back to the tip again, his head tilted backwards, lips parted around the next moan. ’
‘Pleasure,’ he interrupts, but it sounds like an affirmation.
I swallow hard. ‘Yes.’
When he doesn’t say anything else, I read on. ‘Her spit began to—Oh…’ My brows furrow as I read ahead. ‘That is nasty.’ Turning the page only makes me realise it gets far worse than that.
He gives a soft chuckle and shifts a little. I go motionless until his hand finds its way to the back of my neck. He peers over my shoulder.
‘And you’ve never done anything nasty before?’ he asks casually, his gaze following the lines.
Somehow, it feels as if answering that question would make this moment worse.
‘Spit…’ I lift the book pointedly, and realise—
He is too close now.
When the same thought slams into him, his face thaws in gradients, taking on a cruel shape. Everything in my chest cavity draws tight as something resolves behind his eyes.
Slowly, he turns towards the plate, sweeps his forefinger and middle finger through the jam, then brings the tips towards my mouth.
‘Open that pretty mouth of yours,’ he echoes my words from the first day we met.
That time, I hadn’t known I’d stumbled onto something wrong that had taken root in him long before he met me. And now he holds that question against my own mouth as if the answer might rewrite it.
My heart cracks open. The apology is nearly on my tongue.
My lips part to push it through, but then his fingers slide in before anything can come out.
The sweet-tart jam slips easily into my mouth as he presses it against my tongue. My whole body jerks. I catch his wrist, nails biting into his skin, but he still keeps me pinned against him.
His eyes are fixed on the place where his fingers linger.
He pulls them out slightly. Once.
Then pushes back again, a slow, shallow undulation that makes my breath stutter around the invasion.
Anger flashes hot within me. I twist his wrist harder, enough to make the tendons shift beneath my palm, but then—
‘That spit you cringe at… you’d need it,’ he murmurs beside my ear, low enough to set every nerve in me alight.
‘It’s meant to be decadent in the book. But as we can see…
’ He keeps moving the fingers. ‘Dry, there would be resistance. Friction. You need the saliva unless you want discomfort. However…’
Heat rushes up my throat so violently I almost choke when his fingers push in and pull out again.
I bite down.
His breath catches against my neck, a rough sound vibrating out of him, too low and pleased to be pain.
My jaw loosens in horror.
‘See?’ he whispers, nuzzles his face into my neck again. ‘You’re more proficient than you’re letting on.’
I almost yelp when his hand closes around my throat, but he doesn’t squeeze. We remain suspended in the space between one ruin and another as he keeps me right where he needs me.
‘Another choice now…’ he whispers.
A small question. A quiet one. Enough to leave me with a sickening sense that something inside me has shifted out of place.
Whatever answer comes with it, it’s not going to be ‘no’.
My body freezes in his hold – and not entirely from fear. It’s that awful foreboding that begins calculating damage before pride takes the reins.
The fire beside us warms my cheek. The blizzard whistles in prayer behind the glass.
His breath moves against my skin. His scent winds around me. His hand holds my throat lightly as if to give the illusion that denial is still possible.
Even if it was, it wouldn’t come.
Because I am not really thinking about how to stop this.
I’m thinking about how much further he intends to push this. And how much of me will still be left when he’s done.
‘Your top or your bottoms?’ he asks.