Any self-consciousness I had left the building along with my brain cells.
His mouth finds my sternum, then my stomach, pressing slow open kisses down as his hands travel with him, skating over my ribs, over the curve of my hips. He traces a path down to the waistband of my underwear and pauses there, his lips brushing the skin just above the cotton.
My pulse pounds so hard I can feel it in my teeth. He presses one deliberate kiss directly over the fabric where my clit throbs with need and I gasp. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and looks up at me, his eyes dark and steady on mine as he draws my panties slowly down my legs.
He kneels in front of me, his gaze set on me like I'm something worth studying. Not quickly, not impulsively, but deliberately like he has all the time in the world. I step out of my underwear and the tile is cool under my bare feet.
Between us the air shifts into something different. His nostrils flare. He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep, long inhale, his snout right next to my soft cover of curls, then lets out a slow exhale. He groans like a man smelling something freshly baked and devastatingly good.
"You smell sweet," he says. "The sweetest thing I've ever smelled."
That is the most devastating sentence ever constructed in the English language.
"I'm going to feast on you now. I'm going to feast on you until you come all over my tongue with your sweet honey."
His hot breath ghosts over my inner thigh and my whole body tightens in anticipation. My arousal hangs thick and undeniable between us. His hands part my thighs and his mouth finds the center of me, and I stop being able to think in any language at all.
His tongue parts me and moves, slow and deliberate, a long stroke from my center up and over my clit, and the sound that comes out of me is equal parts desperate and infinitely satisfied. He does it again and I feel the answering growl against me, low and feral, and my hands drop to his head and I'm gripping his horns like my life depends on it.
And for all I know, my life does depend on it, because my legs have decided that supporting me is not their problem anymore.
My hips roll against his mouth and he holds my thighs open and keeps going, circling and flicking, patient and relentless, and I am completely and entirely lost to the sensation.
"More, Dem, I need more." I do not manage to sound dignified about it. I also don't care. All I care about is his tongue on myclit and the sensation building like water behind a dam about to break.
"That's exactly what I want to give you," he says against me. "More. Everything."
Then he slips one long finger inside me, curling forward as his mouth goes back to work, and I tip my head back, close my eyes, and surrender to the hurricane of sensation.
The orgasm comes from everywhere at once.
I grab his horns tighter and ride it out, his mouth working me through all of it, not stopping until I'm trembling against him and the only sounds in the kitchen are the very unladylike noises my mouth keeps making.
He rises from his knees, in no rush at all, and his eyes find mine. He looks like a man who has just gotten exactly what he wanted, so unguarded it almost brings my breathing back. Almost.
"Hi," I manage, with a smile that probably looks crazy and weak.
"Hi," he says.
Then he bends and picks me up like I weigh nothing, leaving my nightgown on the kitchen floor. I yelp in surprise and wrap my arms around his neck, but he barely slows down as he walks out.
We move through the dark hallways, up the staircase, and then we're in his room. I've been in his room before and it still catches me off guard that it has barely changed in all those years. It's large and masculine and so undeniably him it's almost disorienting.
Dark wood furniture, clean lines, nothing unnecessary. A monstrously big bed takes up most of the far wall, dressed in a marine blue comforter and a careful arrangement of pillows. A lamp sits on the nightstand, throwing warm amber light overeverything, and through the far window the ocean is a dark smudge of silver under the moon.
He lowers me onto the bed.
The comforter is cool and smooth under my back and I take half a second to register how good it feels before I sit up on my elbows, reach for his belt buckle, and work it open while he stands there and watches me with his hands still at his sides, that same complete, unnerving stillness.
His jeans come open and I push them down and the breath goes out of me in a slow, involuntary rush.
He is large. Objectively, spectacularly large. The kind of large that makes a woman perform a very rapid internal calculation regarding physics. He was my first and I remember, even at eighteen, having a moment of significant personal recalibration. What stands in front of me now makes that memory look like a warm-up exercise.
A drop of moisture sits at the broad tip and my mouth waters as I stare at it. Correct response. Here we are.
"Are you sure?" he says.
I look up at him. His face is a landscape of pure male hunger but he's still restrained enough to ask. There is nothing he could do that would be sexier.
