Chapter 7 #3
His mouth lifts away, but his fingers remain buried deep and unmoving. I want to shoot up to a sit, but the cookies would go tumbling. Instead, I quake, breathless, trying to disappear into the table’s smooth surface.
“So wet,” he observes, tone perfectly neutral. “I’m curious about something.”
“Can you—”
“Hush.” His thumb traces a lazy circle over my slick lips, and I can hear the sopping sound as he presses the tip of his digit in then out, then in again. The softest knock at the door. “Can you squirt?”
My vision swims. Who is this down between my thighs? Surely not Mr. Chivalrous, Mr. Golden Retriever. Mr. I’m-Too-Old-For-You. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s find out.”
He lays one palm flat beneath my navel, pressing me deeper into the hard table.
He thrusts his other two longest fingers back in, curling them once more but this time fishing.
For that spot. I gasp when he finds it, the sensation like lightning.
I’m already overwhelmed but the blasts of intensity cause me to completely lose control.
He attacks like a madman. Like I’m something to accomplish or more accurately to conquer.
He pumps his hand at inhuman speed, more machine than man and my body surrenders before my mind does.
I writhe underneath his touch and he knows it before I do.
With one quick flick to my clit I’m coming so hard it almost hurts.
My orgasm is so intense it causes a numbness. A total submission.
And when I let go, everything lets go.
Splash. Spray. The answer to his question in waves.
“I knew it. Good girl. So fucking good. So hot,” he coos as he watches me make a mess on his hand and his furniture.
The pounding in my ears grows faint, and somewhere in the mix I realize one cookie is on the floor, visible in the periphery. How the hell it got all the way up here, I don’t know.
Then, I’m cold. The comforting warmth of Callen’s body dissipates and I feel him standing beside my shoulder.
He leans down, retrieves the fallen cookie from the throw rug. I’m still high, still afloat from the aftershock…when he presses the cookie against my lips.
Somehow, this is more erotic. I can’t explain it. I just had the best orgasm of my life, and yet him wedging this chocolate cookie into my mouth feels dirtier. I clamp down, letting the crunch echo in the silence. The taste of chocolate and cream mingles with salt and want.
“You failed,” he says crouching down, eyes glittering as he watches me chew.
I swallow the bite, then draw in a shuddering breath, trying to summon some defiance. “So? We’re too far deep anyway. Come take what you want.”
I’m sure of it as I reach for him, imagining the weight of his body pressing me down, anticipating that moment of satisfaction as he disappears inside of me—
He stands.
He rises, steps back, the cool air of the room brushing my overheated skin.
He locks my gaze before tugging his boxers down around his ankles, revealing the hard length he grips in his fist. He begins to stroke himself, each movement slow and deliberate, while I lie naked and undone on this little table.
“I told you,” he says, voice low and certain, “I’m a man of my word. You dropped the cookie. I’m not going to fuck you. This is your punishment.”
“What is?” I croak out. Now, I’m fixed on his magnificent dick. So much better up close, erect, already glistening at the tip.
“Watching what you want. Not being able to have it.”
Oh, you absolute bastard.
I should be furious. I should be climbing off this table.
But I’m immobile. I lie here and let him look at me, let him use the sight of me, and it’s the single most erotic thing anyone’s ever done to me—this control, this discipline, this man denying us both to make a point.
I watch, mesmerized, until his jaw goes tight and his rhythm stutters and his eyes rake down my body one last time before he comes, spilling hot across my stomach with an aching groan he doesn’t try to swallow.
For a moment neither of us moves. He’s breathing hard. I’m still a disaster spread across his furniture. The credits have long since ended and the TV’s gone to that screen where it asks if we’re still watching.
No, we’re not watching anything but each other.
Then he tucks himself away, and disappears down the hall.
Just as quickly he returns with a warm damp towel.
And with a tenderness that does not match a single thing that just happened, he cleans me off—careful, unhurried, wiping my stomach.
There’s something in the aftercare that’s far more intimate than oral sex.
He drops a kiss on my hip. Then he leans over me, close, his mouth by my ear, and the edge is still there but there’s warmth wrapped all the way around it now.
“Sylvie. Hear me now. Whatever else you decide about me, know this: I’m a man of my word.”
And lying here, cleaned and kissed and thoroughly outmaneuvered by a man I was sent to kill, I have the terrible, clarifying thought that I am in a great deal of trouble.
Because I believe him.
Because all too fast, and all too recklessly, something in me trusts what he’s saying.