As my pierced tongue found her clit, her body jerked upwards, a startled gasp tumbling from her lips.
I held her thighs down with a firm grip, my tongue working its magic on her clit, the metal piercing tapping against it rhythmically.
“Oh. Oh. Oh.” Her moans echoed in the kitchen, filling the room with a symphony of her pleasure, encouraging my relentless assault.
Then came that distinct creaking sound.
It was faint, emanating from the floor above us.
Scott is back up and moving.
But Teyonah was having too much of a good time to notice.
A wild surge of adrenaline shot through me at the realization.
It was a thrilling sense of danger.
An added layer of forbidden excitement that sent my blood pulsing faster through my veins.
I pushed back from her, gripped the edge of the table, and began to move it.
The legs screeched softly against the tile.
“Dominic?” Her voice was breathless, confused.
I didn’t answer.
I twisted the heavy table with both hands, rotating it until its long side faced the doorway that led to the staircase.
The wood groaned.
She blinked at me. “What are you doing?”
“Just in case someone comes down, I want to see.” I kissed her. “Don’t worry. I’ll move it back after you cum.”
Before she could say anything, I was kissing her intensely letting her know that this was the way it would be.
She moaned, “Oh fuck. . .Dominic. . .”
Groaning, I pulled back from her lips and glanced behind her.
From this angle, I could see everything—every step, every possible intrusion.
The control settled over me like armor.
The rush in my veins was no longer only desire. It was something far more dangerous—possession meeting vigilance.
Now the house was divided into two worlds: the sleeping, chaotic one upstairs, and the charged, orgasmic one here under my watch.
But there was a third world I hadn't accounted for.
Movement caught my peripheral vision—not from the stairs, but from the window behind Teyonah's shoulder. The house next door. Mrs. Patterson's living room window, directly across from this kitchen.
The lights were still on, warm yellow spilling across her curtains.
And those curtains moved.
Not from wind. From Mrs. Patterson pulling back the curtains. Her face was half-lit by the glow of her TV and she was wickedly licking her lips.
