He looks up at me from between my thighs, eyes dark, mouth already dangerous.
“I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
“No.” His hands tighten on my hips. “You don’t.”
Then he proves it.
He puts his mouth on me like he has been thinking about it for days and hating himself for how much. Like he remembers every time he stopped. Every time he left. Every time he decided restraint was the cleaner choice.
There is nothing clean about this.
I fist the sheets. Then his hair. He groans against me, and the vibration nearly takes me apart.
“Fuck, Ryan.”
His hand slides up my stomach and presses me back down when I try to lift away from it.
“Stay there.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
I laugh, or I mean to, but his mouth changes and the sound breaks into something helpless.
He knows exactly when I stop performing control.
I hate that.
I love that.
The first orgasm hits fast and mean, my back bowing off the bed, his name torn out of me while he holds me open and does not let me hide from any of it.
He kisses his way back up while I am still shaking.
I taste myself on his mouth.
That should not be hot.
It is.
It makes me reckless. I get a hand on his shoulder and shove, reaching for the turn — to put my hands on him, even the score.
Ryan
She goes for the flip, a hand hard on my shoulder.
I catch both wrists before she gets the leverage.
“Not yet.”
She tests the hold. I let her feel it does not move.
“Bossy,” she says.
“You reached first.”
