21. Sawyer #2
I tuck it away in the bottom drawer of the desk before once again circling her waist, slipping beneath her sweater—black, always black, but suddenly I wonder what she looks like in blue. And purple. And green. And literally anything else.
She shakes her head. “Don’t thank me… Just do your job.”
As my hands slide up her ribs, her stony expression softens. She shuffles as the tips of my fingers trace the laced lining of her bra, but she doesn’t break away. Doesn’t even try.
“Yes, Head Keeper,” I coo while wrestling with a smile.
“Sawyer.”
I force my lips flat at her serious eyes. Scared eyes. Her chest heaves with breaths too heavy for a touch so small.
“Don’t screw me over.”
My hands still. A knot tugs in my gut as I nod, and for a ridiculous moment, I wish that could ever be true. For a ridiculous moment, I forget it’s me wearing the shackles.
I owe her nothing.
But instead of pointing that out, I curve my index finger along unfamiliar lace. “Is this new?”
Luna turns her head, abs stiffening beneath my palm. If it wasn’t clear that she bought this for me, the blush that fans along her jaw would betray her.
I lift the sweater over her breasts and plant a soft kiss to one swell, then the other.
That word again… Beautiful.
“I like it.”
No response, but her arms lift as I guide the sweater over her head and toss it to the desk. I roll the chair back and situate myself onto my knees, my forehead resting on her stomach as I breathe in. Vanilla, sweat, and something a little musky—like she rolled in the forest before running here.
I don’t question it.
My palms collect each bow of her ass and lift so she rises on her toes. I trail my lips from her belly to the hollow between her hipbones.
She lets me undo the button on her pants before gently coaxing me away. “You don’t want to do that right now…”
I squint as I look up at the blush spreading to her temples. Hair drapes her face as she tilts her head to watch me.
“Why?”
No response. She just stares at me until I understand.
For a moment, there’s a flash of heat—like the squirt of gasoline on a bonfire. If there was a fireplace in the library, it might make sense. But it’s gone before I can fully question it.
When I breathe in, there’s that musk again, more him than her. I breathe through my mouth and slide my tongue along the back of my teeth.
Returning to Luna’s zipper, I shoo her hand away when she half-heartedly tries to stop me.
“Did he make you come?”
She’s quiet for a few moments while I strip her bottom half and let her pants rest in a heap on the floor.
“No.”
“Has he ever?”
She gasps as I raise her knees, spreading her legs as I force her back onto the desk. I place her heels on the edge of the wood before shoving the laptop so her neck isn’t kinked.
“He’s tried,” she whispers.
Her hips jut at the feel of my thumb pressing against her clit. Eyes closing, she relaxes back on the desk and parts her lips while I massage her. So responsive. So easy.
Thorne should be ashamed.
I lean over her chest, one hand bracing myself on the table while the other works between her legs. “Do you think about me while he’s inside of you?”
Color floods her cheeks, and her breathing grows heavy. But she doesn’t respond.
Coward.
“Say it.”
Her eyes flutter open. For a moment, she looks beautifully innocent, but her expression pinches when I pick up my pace rubbing her. She raises onto her elbows and lets a moan flow easily from her mouth.
I used to have to work for that moan.
“If you want me to lick your pussy while that Neanderthal’s cum is dribbling out of you, you’d better say what I want to hear, Your Grace.”
Her heavy gaze floats between my lips and my eyes. “I think about you.”
“When?”
She swallows. Her breath shakes. The valley between her breasts deepens as her arms squeeze.
Finally: “All the time.”
My rhythm hitches. My eyes suddenly lock to hers as I slow, as though she commanded the attention; but I know she doesn’t mean the words as heavy as I hear them.
I hold my breath to brace for something that never comes—specifics I wouldn’t know what to do with. Luna’s eyes close as she faces the ceiling and shifts her knees wider.
The knot in my gut tugs, as if to remind me it’s there. I push back even harder than before.
Dropping to my knees, I take her clit in my mouth and slide a finger inside her pussy to massage her upper walls.
Cum coats my hand—hers, Thorne’s, whoevers—and I feel that flash of heat all over again.
Jealousy is so foreign a feeling, I don’t recognize it until I notice my thrusts deepening to brutal jerks.
Luna moans anyway.
A second finger joins the first, and I steady my rhythm while flicking her clit with my tongue.
It takes little to make her come tonight, and I tell myself it has nothing to do with her already being primed. After only a couple minutes tops of my tongue pressing on her clit the way she likes, she pushes her chest up. Her mouth opens with a guttural grunt.
Her pussy clenches tight before it starts to spasm, and her breaths turn ragged. Before I can run a full circle over her clit for a second round, Luna closes her legs and slowly gets up. As she dresses, she avoids my eyes.
I stand with her as she collects her pants and pulls them on with over-the-top concentration, her hair draping her face as she surveys the black material.
“It’s late, Dreg,” she says as she straightens her sweater. She picks up her jacket and folds it over her arms. “Shut the computer down and get some sleep.”
When she goes to leave, my hand reaches for her arm—reflexive, involuntary. I don’t know what I want until she turns toward me with her face bathed in the warm glow of the lamp, long pigmentless eyelashes casting slivers of shadow on her eyelids.
I cup her chin and press my lips to hers. She pulls back, eyes wide.
“Good night, Luna.”