I hook my foot behind his ankle and use his weight against him in the same move I’ve used on bigger opponents. He shifts. I spin him. His shoulders hit the wall where mine just were, and the sound of it is loud in the dark room.
His hands drop. His eyes widen. For one full second Maximus looks at me like he has no idea what just happened.
Good.
I hold his gaze. My palms flat on his chest, the crescent mark pulsing under my right hand. His heartbeat. Fast.
“My turn.”
I drop to my knees.
His breath stops. His hands go to the wall behind him and his fingers press into the plaster.
I’ve never done this with him. I’ve thought about it. But I’ve never been on my knees in front of this man and the look on his face right now says he wasn’t prepared for this either.
I undo his belt. Slowly. The way he rolled his sleeves. Giving him time to feel every second of what’s coming.
“Celeste.” His voice is wrecked already, and I haven’t even touched him.
I pull him free. He’s hard and heavy, cool in my hand, and I wrap my fingers around him and stroke once, base to tip, watching his face the entire time. His head drops back against the wall. The tendons in his neck pull tight.
I lean in and press my lips to the base of him. Softly. Then I drag my lips up along the length of him, slow, open, mirroring what he did to my throat moments ago. I feel him twitch against my lips.
His hands leave the wall and come to my hair. His fingers tangle in it but he doesn’t push. He’s holding on. The shadows flicker at his wrists where they meet my scalp.
I take him into my mouth.
The sound he makes goes through me. A low, ragged sound I have never pulled from him before, and I want to hear it again. I take him deeper, finding the rhythm with my mouth, learning what makes his fingers tighten and what makes his hips jerkforward. He’s trying not to move. The effort locked in his thighs, the muscles rigid, the control fighting the need.
I flatten my tongue against the underside and suck, and his whole body shudders.
“Celeste.” Different this time. Broken open. “You need to stop.”
But I don’t. I take him deeper and his hips buck and his fist tightens in my hair and his pleasure is coiling so tight it’s almost pain, and I use it. I’m relentless, and the shadows surge along his arms and every muscle in his body goes rigid.
“I can’t.” His voice is barely there. “If you don’t stop I’m going to…”
I pull back. Look up at him. His chest is heaving. His eyes are glazed.
“I know.”
Something cracks open in his face.
He pulls me up by my arms. My back hits the wall, he crashes into me again, and I can taste the desperation on him. His hands drag down my body and find the waistband of my pants, and he doesn’t bother with the zipper. He hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls. The sound of tearing fills the room. My pants and underwear gone in one motion, the cool air hits my skin, then his palm is between my thighs and his fingers push into me, my head drops back, and I’m already so wet it’s embarrassing.
“Not embarrassing,” he says against my mouth. I hadn’t realized I said it out loud.
His fingers curl inside me, and I gasp, and he finds the spot that makes my knees buckle and works it with an accuracy that should be illegal. I’m gripping his shoulders, my hips are rocking against his palm, and he’s watching my face with an intensity that makes my skin burn.
He pulls back. I make a sound of protest. He lifts me. My legs wrap around him, and the wall takes the weight.
He pushes into me in one long stroke, and the sound I make is not quiet.
The stretch of him. The fullness. My body opens and tightens around him at the same time. His forehead drops to mine. For one second, we are both still. The shadows curling against my skin and his breath ragged on my lips.
Then he moves.
Slow at first. Long, slow strokes that pull almost all the way out and push back in deep enough that I can’t hold my head up. Even now, even with everything cracking open, he’s making me feel every inch of it.
