"Shut up, Ireland."
"Make me."
I cover her mouth with mine, swallowing the laugh that follows, and kiss her until the laugh dissolves into a moan. My free hand slides under her shirt and up her ribs, and she arches against me, pressing into my palm.
I strip her shirt off and push her flat on her back, both wrists pinned above her head in one hand, and the way she tests my grip, pulling just enough to feel the hold without trying to break it, tells me she wants the restraint as much as I want to give it.
"You're going to stay where I put you," I tell her, my mouth against her jaw. "And you're going to let me take my time. And you're not going to give me performance notes."
"And if I do?"
"Then I stop."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
The challenge lands. Her mouth closes on whatever she was about to say, and her eyes go dark with a heat that is half frustration and half anticipation. I release her wrists and she keeps them where I put them, fingers curling around the slats of her headboard, and the sight of Ireland Calloway holding position because I told her to makes my cock so hard it aches.
I undress her slowly. The shorts and panties, dragged down her thighs with deliberate patience while she squirms. I press my mouth to her belly, tasting the salt of her skin, and work my way down with the same unhurried focus I bring to every task that matters.
"You're being deliberately slow," she says through her teeth.
"Clinical observation?"
"Professional assessment. Your pacing is sadistic."
"I've been called worse." I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh and she jerks. I kiss the other thigh, close enough to where she wants me that her hips tilt in pursuit, and I hold them down with both hands and make her wait.
"Boone."
"Quiet. I'm assessing."
I breathe her in, the warm musk of her arousal, and press my tongue flat against her, one long slow stroke from entrance to clit. The moan she lets out is ragged, raw, and her hand leaves the headboard to grip my hair.
"That's a violation," I murmur against her. "Hands on the headboard."
"I can't."
"You can." I lick her again, slow and thorough, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue before drawing it into my mouth. "Put your hand back."
Her hand shakes as she grips the headboard again, and the effort of holding position while I take her apart with my mouth is visible in every line of her body.
I eat her out with patience and precision, learning the rhythm that makes her hips roll and the pressure that makes her thighs shake. I bring her to the edge and ease back, and the frustrated growl she lets out is so sharp and furious that I nearly laugh against her skin.
"I will actually murder you," she pants. "Slowly. With clinical precision."
"You're giving notes again." I seal my mouth over her clit and suck, pressing two fingers inside her and curling them forward.
She breaks. The orgasm tears through her in a rush, her body arching off the mattress, her voice cracking open on a cry that fills the bedroom. Her inner walls pulse around my fingers and her thighs clamp against my head, and I hold her there, working her through it until she's gasping and boneless and her grip on the headboard has gone slack.
I climb up her body and she grabs my face and kisses me, tasting herself on my mouth. "Inside me," she says against my lips. "Now. I am done waiting."
I push inside her in one firm stroke, and she's so wet from coming that the entry is smooth and slick and we both groan at the feeling of it.
She wraps around me, legs and arms, and pulls me closer, deeper, and I can feel every inch of her, hot and swollen and still fluttering from her orgasm.
I start to move, slow and deep, each stroke deliberate, and she bites my shoulder and digs her nails into my back and makes a noise against my skin that is half frustration and half pleasure.
