Chapter 7 #2
This is a test I didn’t prepare for.
Callen walks to his kitchen. His broad back is blocking whatever he’s doing, but I hear a cabinet open then click shut. My whole body is thrumming with intrigue.
I didn’t expect him to come back with a half-empty package of Oreos—family size of course.
“Take your clothes off,” he commands. “Lie down on the table. On your back.”
I raise an eyebrow, because I do not take orders. From anybody, and I’m not sure if I like his tone right now. Oh, who am I kidding? I love it.
“Sylvie.” He repeats my name and there’s iron under it. Like a king finally claiming his throne. “You wanted to see if I’m a missionary-in-the-dark guy. Find out. Or since the movie’s over, put your coat on and I’ll drive you home. Your call.”
Oh. Oh. The desk rider has a bottom floor made of steel and I just collided with it.
I strip my clothes off so fast, it’s almost clumsy. For added flair, I toss my bra at him as my breasts drop. He doesn’t even flinch.
Knowing I won’t get his approval until I follow all instructions, I begin on part two.
I lie back on his coffee table, the wood cool against my shoulder blades.
When I’m set and lying still, I feel his eyes move over me—slow, thorough, possessive—somehow making me feel even more naked than being buck naked.
“Scoot all the way down. Ass to the edge of the table.”
I do it. “Now what?”
“Knees up. Heels on the edge.”
I do that too. I’m left spread wide open, clit throbbing, pussy on display, exposed in the lamplight in a way that should make me feel vulnerable and instead makes me feel powerful, because of how he’s looking at me, like I’m something he’s starving for.
But it strains my neck to keep holding his gaze. My head relaxes on the table and I surrender to the sounds and feelings.
The Oreo package rumples. The foil packet peeled back and replaced. I feel the rough crust of a cookie—one balanced on each of my knees.
“Here’s how this works.”
Ah, damn. I lift my head again because I want to see what that grisly, sexy growl of a voice looks like. He looks up the length of my body, lingering on my breasts. The way his teeth sink into his bottom lip, it’s obvious his restraint has expired.
“What’s the game, Callen?”
“Don’t let the cookies fall. You drop one, we stop. You drop one, I don’t fuck you. Understand?”
“Too easy.” Yet my voice comes out embarrassingly unsteady.
“Cocky little thing.” Then he puts his mouth on me.
The very first sweep of his tongue against me forces a moan out of me that sounds foreign. Like I’ve never made that sound before.
He’s deliberate, not exploratory: each stroke is flat and slow, like a sculptor carving the orgasm.
My hands fly to the edges of the glass-topped table, knuckles whitening, because I’ve got two chocolate-sandwich cookies balanced on my knees, and I am hell-bent on not losing them.
Partly out of pride, partly because I want to come more than I want to live. It’s been so long.
He doesn’t rush. That patience—fuck, that patience—destroys me.
Normally, men treat this like a mechanical checkpoint, a barrier to the part they really care about.
They tumble through me so fast their need flattens mine.
I don’t fake orgasms. I let them know when they’ve left me wanting.
But that won’t be an issue with Callen. I can barely breathe or think, let alone speak.
Callen is humbling me with his expert tongue.
He’s still not in a hurry. He explores me like he’s mapping uncharted terrain by moonlight—toggling between tender, long, slow drags of his tongue that twist my spine into an arch that seems inhuman to hold.
I flinch when he finds my clit with the tip of his tongue and flicks it, a staccato beat of pressure that makes my head fuzzy.
“Oh my fuck, just like that,” I beg or pray. Who the hell knows the difference anymore. When I skid too close to the edge, he retreats, pulling back to those sinuous, deliberate strokes, as though he’s got all the time in the world.
He holds my hips so he can collect the physical data: the quiver of my hips, every hitch in my breathing, the involuntary tensing of my thighs. Like a student with a cheat sheet, he adapts, logging my reactions and answering correctly to keep me on the edge.
Even amidst my pleas, there’s a cold precision in his attentiveness that makes me shiver. This is his moment to punish my sass and forwardness. To teach me what he’s really made of and what he tried to spare me from. Why spare me from paradise, though?
Then, without warning, he sinks two long, thick fingers inside me. There’s no gentle test of one index finger, exploring my tightness. He plunges into me with both like he already knows I can take it. Right again. The sudden fullness twists my insides so sharply I nearly convulse off the table.
“Still,” he murmurs, voice vibrating against my most sensitive place before he latches onto my clit and sucks, hard, heroically.
The cookies shake, crumbs sprinkling on my thighs as I clench my jaw to keep from cursing.
He curls his fingers, rakes them against the spot that pulls me toward oblivion, and synchronizes each suck of pressure with the strokes of his fingers. It’s the rhythm that’s agonizing.
And then he stops.