His groan is pure male satisfaction. Low. Dangerous. Triumphant.
He drags my panties down, then pushes my thighs apart with firm, guiding hands.
And when his mouth finally touches me—hot, slow, reverent—I clench hard as I climax.
“That’s it, Seraphina. My gorgeous girl. More of that.”
His mouth is heaven and hell all at once.
He licks into me like I’m his last meal—slow, firm, relentless. There’s no teasing now, no tentative flicks of the tongue. He devours. Worships. The shadow on his chin drags over my thighs in a way that makes my whole body quiver. I’m being claimed, not roughly but completely.
“Xavier—” His name rips out of me again, helpless and high-pitched.
He flattens his tongue and circles my clit, and I jolt. The contact is sudden and perfect, and my legs tremble so hard I nearly collapse.
In the mirror, I see us and a reflection bouncing off the window behind me.
My bare legs are spread, and his dark head is between them, the lights of the city flickering behind us.
Piece by piece, moan by moan, he’s taking me apart, and I don’t want to stop him.
“Look at me.” His growl is rough against my pussy, and his voice vibrates straight through my core. “I want your eyes on mine when you come again.”
Oh God, help me.
I glance down, and he’s watching me, pupils wide, one hand gripping my thigh, the other slowly parting my labia.
The heat builds too fast. I’m too sensitive, too strung out from wanting him for too long. My second orgasm crests in a hot, dizzying wave that steals my breath. I scream, my body locking. I’m all nerves and no control. My vision goes white, and my knees give out.
He’s there, steadying me, holding me tight.
Or as safe as I want to be.
In a single motion, he stands and sweeps me up, one of his strong arms beneath my knees, the other around my back. He holds me like I weigh nothing, like I’m precious. And I’m not ready for the way that makes me feel—wanted, yes, but also safe.
He doesn’t speak as he carries me across the living room. The only sound is my ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart in my ears.
When he reaches the couch, he pauses.
“This okay?” He looks at me consideringly. “Or do you want your bed?”
Heaven save me. His tenderness devastates me more than the orgasms did.
“The couch is fine.”
He sets me down gently, like I’m made of glass. His body follows, his knees settling on either side of my hips. He takes off his boots, but he’s still fully dressed—jeans and dark henley—but his eyes are molten, like he’s barely holding it together.
I reach up and thread my fingers through his hair, tugging gently. He groans and drops his forehead to mine.
“I need you, Seraphina. Right now. I wish I could wait longer.”
My thighs fall open instinctively, welcoming him in, and his hips drop into the cradle of mine. The thick ridge of his erection presses right against me through his jeans and I gasp, bucking up into him.
“You’re still wearing too many clothes.” My protest is real. Now that I’ve had him against me, I want him in me.
He grins, but it’s sharp, ragged. He pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion—and I have to drag in a breath because, holy hell, this man is cut from sin and stone. Broad chest. Defined abs. Every inch of him coiled and hard and mine. For now.
He makes quick work of his belt, then freezes.
