Chapter 8
SAOIRSE
His hands map me with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt.
One fist anchors deep in my hair, a blunt, heavy pressure that tilts my head back, exposing the line of my throat.
When he kisses me, it’s a claim. He drinks the air from my lungs until my head swims, his tongue a slow, sure invasion that makes breathing feel like a distant, unnecessary luxury.
His other hand finds the small of my back in a commanding drag of skin against skin that sparks a low, insistent ache behind my ribs, turning my knees to water.
“Riley Quinn,” he murmurs on my mouth. “What are you?”
I can’t think, can’t form any words. All I know is I want this, him, us.
The edge of the table bites into my thighs as he crowds into my space, his heat a living thing. My body leans into every second. He leaves the wreckage of my lips to ghost down my throat, tasting the frantic jump of my pulse.
When his teeth graze the sensitive dip below my jaw, his breath hitches—a low, animal vibration that vibrates through my own bones.
“Rule one. Every time you’ll challenge me,” he murmurs, his voice a delicious friction against my skin, “you’ll end up exactly where we both know you belong.”
His palm spreads flat against my waist, his thumb tracing slow, agonizing circles that scatter my thoughts like ash. I reach for him, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to bridge the last of the distance. He allows it—but only just.
As the fabric parts, the rush of skin meeting skin is electric, a ripple of sensation that forces a gasp from my throat.
He catches my wrist, pinning it against the heavy, thudding beating of his heart.
“Slow,” he warns, though the strain in his jaw tells a different story.
He dips his head, his lips grazing the curve of my shoulder, the contact so light it’s agonizing.
He lingers there, his breath hot through the thin lace of my lingerie, until I’m trembling, undone by the sheer proximity of him.
The room has vanished, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating scent of him—well-worn leather, woodsmoke, and a dark, sharpened hunger. His control is a frayed wire, snapping with the sound of my name. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him back to me, needing the wreck of him.
As his hand slides higher, skimming the razor’s edge between restraint and total ruin, the world narrows to the point of a needle.
He lifts his head, his eyes dark with a turbulent, unsteady heat. “You still think you’re the dangerous one?”
“I know I am,” I breathe, the lie vibrating between us.
His smile is a slow-burn promise—danger and surrender wrapped in a single look. When he catches my mouth again, there is no more room for games, only the sharp, beautiful violence of wanting.
I moan into his mouth as his hands move to the zipper at my back, the metal teeth parting with a whisper.
The dress pools at my waist, held up by nothing but the pressure of his body against mine.
He hooks his thumbs into the straps of my bra, sliding them slowly down my arms, his knuckles grazing my skin.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I do, and the heat in his gaze is almost physical.
He unclasps the lace, letting it fall away.
The cool breeze from an open window hits me for a second before his palms replace it, warm and heavy.
He cups my breasts, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks until they’re aching and tight.
I let out a broken sound, my head falling back against his shoulder.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asks, his mouth hovering just over my ear. “To see if I’d actually take what you’re offering?”
Before I can answer, his head dips. He takes one taut peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling in a dance that sends a jolt straight to my core.
I cry out, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once.
He ignores my conflict, his teeth grazing me just enough to make me hiss, his hand sliding down to the small of my back to pull my hips flush against his.
The friction of his trousers against my bare skin is maddening.
“Please,” I breathe, the word catching in my throat.
“Please what?” He lifts his head, his lips glistening, a dark smirk tugging at his mouth. He moves his hand lower, his palm flat against my stomach, pushing down until his fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear. He doesn’t pull them down yet. He just lingers there.
“Tell me exactly what you’re begging for,” he prompts, his voice a gravelly scrape.
I reach down, covering his hand with mine, urging him lower. “You know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
He slides his hand inside the silk, his fingers finding the damp heat of me. I jump at the contact, my breath hitching as he finds exactly where I’m most sensitive. He starts a slow, agonizingly steady friction, his eyes locked on mine, watching every flicker of pleasure and ruin across my face.
“You’re so loud for someone who likes to play it cool,” he murmurs with a husky laugh, his thumb catching a rhythm that has my vision blurring. He leans in, his chest crushing mine, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Now, Quinn, do you still think you’re in control of this?”
His hand hooks into the lace of my underwear and tugs, the fabric yielding with a soft snap of elastic. He doesn’t just remove them. He strips them down my legs with a focused, hungry efficiency that leaves me completely exposed against the cold wood of the table.
I’m reaching for his belt, my fingers frantic, but he holds me down, catches my wrists and pins them over my head against the tabletop. The wood is hard and unforgiving against my skin, but his body is a wall of heat pressing into me.
"Not yet," he says, his voice thick and rasping. "I’m not done looking at you."
His eyes rake over me, from the flush on my chest to the way my thighs are trembling.
He lets go of my wrists, but I don’t move.
I can’t. He steps back just an inch, enough to drop to his knees between my legs.
He grips my thighs, his fingers digging into my skin as he pulls me right to the edge of the table, hooking my knees over his shoulders.
The first brush of his breath against my inner thigh makes me gasp, my fingers curling into the edge of the table.
"You’re so ready for me," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting over my damp skin. "Look at what you’ve done."
Then, he stops talking. He leans in, his tongue tasting me with a long, slow stroke that starts at the base and curls upward.
I cry out, my hips bucking instinctively, but he holds me still, his grip on my thighs unyielding.
He’s methodical, his tongue flat and heavy, swirling over the sensitive peak of me until my vision starts to blur at the edges.
"God, please," I moan, my head tossing back.
He ignores the plea and takes his damned sweet time. He sucks the small, hardened center of me into his mouth, his teeth grazing me just enough to make me hiss, before his tongue takes over again in a fast, flicking tempo that has me sobbing his name.
Then he reaches up, his fingers finding the heat he’s created, sliding two of them deep inside me while his mouth never leaves its mark. Its almost too much, the stretch of his fingers and the wet, suctioning pressure of his lips working in perfect, agonizing sync.
"Look at me," he demands, pulling back just enough to see my face, his chin slick, his eyes dark with a predator’s satisfaction. "Tell me how it feels."
"I'm... I'm going to—" I can't even finish the sentence. My muscles are coiling, a tight, frantic knot of tension building in my lower belly that’s seconds away from snapping.
"Do it," he growls, his tongue returning to the spot with a sudden, sharp intensity. "Come for me."
The knot in my belly snaps. It’s a sudden, violent release that starts in my toes and surges upward, centering entirely where his mouth is anchored. My back arches off the table and a cry rips from my throat as the waves of pleasure hit.
He doesn’t pull away. He drinks in every tremor, his tongue heavy and insistent, milking the last of the shudders out of me until my legs give way and I’m a boneless heap of heat and static.
He lingers for a heartbeat, his breath hot against my damp skin, before he finally sits back on his heels. He looks up at me, a dark, smug satisfaction written in the line of his mouth. "Dangerous, remember?" he mocks softly, reaching for his belt.
The haze in my brain clears instantly. The challenge in his voice is the spark I need.
Before he can stand, I lunge.
I catch him off guard, my hands hitting his shoulders and pinning him back against the floor. I scramble off the table, my nakedness a weapon now, not a vulnerability. I straddle his chest before he can recover, my knees locking him in place.
"My turn," I whisper, the word sharp and dangerous.
I don't give him time to protest. I move down his body, my hands moving with a frantic, expert speed. I make short work of his belt, the leather snapping as I pull it free. I rip at the buttons of his fly, the sound of denim straining filling the quiet room.
He groans, his hips jumping as I peel the fabric away, exposing him to the cool air and my hungry gaze. He’s hard, straining, and the sight of his pulse thrumming at the base of his length makes my own blood catch fire again.
I lean over him, my hair draping over his thighs like a silk curtain, shielding him from everything but me. I wrap my hand around him, squeezing just enough to hear his breath hitch in a broken rasp.
"You talk a lot for someone who's about to lose his mind," I murmur, my lips ghosting over the very tip of him, catching the bead of moisture there.
I watch his eyes blow wide, his hands reaching out to grip my hair, his knuckles white with the effort of not pulling me down. I hover there, the heat of him radiating against my face, my tongue just a fraction of an inch away from the ruin I’m about to cause.
"Wait," he chokes out, his hips twitching upward in a silent, desperate plea.
I smile against his skin. "I don't think I will."