He captures my mouth and devours me in a way he hasn’t before. This isn’t gentle or probing; it’s demanding and possessive. Everything I have, he wants.
He brings up a hand to capture one of my breasts. Through the flannel of my borrowed shirt, he tweaks my already-hardening nipple.
I arch my back, offering more, silently pleading for more.
Instantly he gives me what I need, squeezing my breast, pinching my nipple, tugging on it, twisting hard when I grab hold of his wrist and move it closer to my body.
And then…
He eases his free hand between my legs.
All the emotions and raw hunger I experienced earlier return to turn my insides into molten lava. Desperately I part my thighs. Please, please let me come this time…
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lyra
Stryker glides his fingers through my slickness, and he parts my folds with deliberate slowness. I’m already swollen, and the first brush of his thumb over my clit makes me gasp into his mouth. He circles once, twice, then presses harder, sending a jolt straight through me.
“Tell me what you want, Allie.” He pulls back just enough to watch my face, his eyes dark with intent. “Be clear about it.”
“I…” I draw a steadying breath. “I want an orgasm.”
A slow smile saunters across his lips. “Tell me how you want me to go about it.”
The words seem to stick in my throat as embarrassment wars with the incessant throb between my legs. I’ve never said anything like this out loud, never let the need spill over without shame. But the way he’s looking at me—with that infinite patience of his—chisels past my reserve.
“I want…” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard. “I want your fingers inside me. Fucking me. Hard. I want to come on your hand, Stryker. Please.”
The plea tumbles out, raw and unfiltered, my cheeks burning even as my hips rock forward, chasing his touch. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, to hear myself beg like this.
His grin is slow, wicked. “Louder.”
“I need you to make me come.” My words seem to echo off the cabin walls, though truthfully they’re probably not much more than a whisper. “Need your fingers deep, your thumb on my clit—Fuck, please, Stryker. I’m begging you.”
“You’re so damn beautiful. Perfect for me.” He growls, low and approvingly, and drives two fingers inside my slick channel without warning.
The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, making me moan.
He changes his angle so that he effortlessly finds my G-spot. Then he presses his thumb against my clit and begins moving in tight, ruthless circles.
Pleasure slams into me, coiling tight and fast. My pussy clenches around him, slick and greedy, every thrust pushing me higher.
Overwhelmed, I cry his name and grip his shoulders.
“Talk to me, Allie.”
My whimpers are incoherent—his name, pleas, broken curses—as the orgasm builds, fierce and unstoppable. “I…”
“Tell me.”
“Please let me orgasm?” My insides are tied in such knots that I’m sure I’ll die if he refuses me yet again. “I’m begging you, Stryker.
“That’s it. Yes. Come for me, Allie.” His tone is all gravel and Dominant command. “Let me hear every moment.”
I shatter.
The climax rips through me, white-hot and endless, my body convulsing as waves of ecstasy pulse from my core.
