Aura
The tenderness lasted until his mouth found mine again. Then it broke open, not into anger, but into something deeper—a raw, possessive hunger that stripped the last of my thoughts away. His hands moved over me with purpose now, mapping skin he hadn’t been allowed to touch freely, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my hip, the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Each touch was a brand, a promise, a reclamation.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and liquid in the lamplight. “I want to eat you.”
The words were low, filthy, and direct. They sent a shockwave of heat straight through my core.
I could only nod, my throat tight.
He moved down my body with a slow, deliberate grace that felt like torture. His mouth trailed a path of fire over my stomach, his stubble scraping lightly, deliciously, against my skin. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my leggings and the thin cotton of my underwear beneath them, looking up at me for one more silent question.
“Please,” I whispered, the word ragged.
He pulled them down my legs, his hands firm and sure, and tossed them aside without looking. The cool air of the room hit my heated skin for a second before he settled between my thighs, his broad shoulders pushing my legs wider.
He didn’t dive in. He looked.
His gaze was hot, heavy, utterly focused on the part of me that was already wet and aching for him. The visual alone made me squirm, a soft, desperate sound escaping my lips.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress. “Soaked for me already. Just from me talking, from me looking at you like this.”
He leaned in, not touching me with his mouth yet, just breathing me in. The warmth of his breath against my most sensitive skin was maddening.
“Easton,” I gasped, my hands fisting in the sheets.
“Tell me what you want, Aura.”
“I want your mouth.”
“Where?”
“On me. Please.”
“Where on you?” he pressed, his voice a dark, teasing rumble. “Use your words. I need to hear it.”
“You know where,” I pleaded, arching my hips.
“I know.” His thumb brushed lightly over my clit, and I jerked. “But I want to hear you say it. I want to hear that pretty voice beg for my tongue on your cunt.”
The crude word, spoken in that low, possessive tone, shattered the last of my restraint. “There. On my pussy. Please, East, just taste me.”
A low groan vibrated from his chest. “Fuck yes.”
Then his mouth was on me.
The first touch of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke from my opening to my clit, slow and thorough, like he was savoring the first bite of a meal he’d been starving for. A broken cry tore from my throat. His hands slid under my thighs, lifting me, holding me open for him as he feasted.
He was relentless. He licked and sucked with a focused intensity that drove every coherent thought from my head. His tongue circled my clit, flicked over it, then pressed against it with firm, steady pressure that had my back bowing off the bed.
“Fuck,” I sobbed, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, not pushing, just holding on.
He hummed against me, the vibration shooting a bolt of pure lightning up my spine. “So sweet,” he growled, his words muffled against my flesh. “Taste like heaven. Always did. Drove me fucking insane, knowing how you tasted, knowing I was the only one who got this.”
He slid a finger inside me, then two, curling them expertly, finding the spot that made me see stars. His mouth never left my clit, sucking it gently between his lips, his tongue working in wicked, rapid circles.
“Easton, I’m—” The warning was a shattered gasp.
“I know you are,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with my arousal. “I can feel you clenching around my fingers. You gonna come for me? Gonna come on my tongue like you used to?”
