“You agreed. No names,” I managed, my voice shaky.
“I lied,” he said, simple as that, and dropped to his knees in the sand.
My hands flew to his shoulders to brace myself. He didn’t ask permission or give me any warning. He put his hands on the backs of my thighs, pulled me forward, and buried his face between my legs.
There was no finesse or gentle exploration. It was raw, hungry, and devastatingly skilled. His tongue dragged through my slit in one flat, hot stripe before zeroing in on my clit. He sucked hard, and my knees buckled. His grip tightened around my thighs, holding me up and open for his mouth.
“Easton—”
His name came out as a broken sob.
He growled against me, the vibration shooting straight into my core, and redoubled his efforts. His tongue flicked fast and relentless while his mouth sealed around me, sucking in a rhythm that had me seeing stars. I gripped his short hair and held on as the world narrowed to the wet, hot friction of his mouth and the coarse sand beneath my feet.
I was close enough to teeter on an edge that felt like both oblivion and home.
He pulled away.
The loss was a physical ache, and a pathetic, desperate whimper escaped me. I looked down, dazed. He remained on his knees, his face glistening and his eyes blazing up at me with pure, masculine satisfaction.
“Not yet,” he said, his voice wrecked.
He stood in one fluid motion and crowded me back against the post. “I want you to come on my cock. Not my tongue.”
His hands went to the strings of my bikini top, the ties at my neck and back. He didn’t fumble. He found them and loosened them with two sharp tugs. He didn’t remove the top. He tore it down, baring my breasts to the night air and his hungry gaze.
The cool breeze pebbled my nipples, and his eyes darkened.
“Damn,” he breathed, all the air leaving him in one syllable.
He leaned in and closed his mouth over one peaked nipple. He sucked hard, his tongue circling and his teeth grazing just enough to make me cry out. His hand found my other breast, kneading while his thumb rubbed rough circles over the tip. The dual sensation—the sharp pleasure-pain of his mouth and the firm, possessive kneading of his hand—was overwhelming.
I arched into him in a silent plea.
While his mouth worked, his other hand returned between my legs. His fingers slid through the slick mess he had made and pushed two inside me in one smooth thrust. I was so wet and ready they slid in easily, stretching and filling me. He crooked them, finding a spot that made my vision blur.
“You love that?” he rasped against my breast. “That’s me. Remember it.”
He fucked me with his fingers, deep and steady, while his mouth moved to my other breast and gave it the same brutal, worshipful attention. I panted and writhed against the post, completely at his mercy and hating how much I loved it.
“Please,” I begged, the word torn from somewhere deep and primal.
“Please what, sweetheart?” He lifted his head, his lips swollen and his eyes locked on mine. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need you inside me. Now.”
A savage grin touched his mouth. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
He withdrew his fingers, and I nearly sobbed at the emptiness. He shoved his swim trunks down his hips and freed himself. In the fragmented moonlight, he looked huge, thick, veined, and ready. He took his cock in his hand, stroked it once through my wetness to slick himself, and held the broad head against my entrance.
He didn’t push in. He only held himself there, pressing against me and teasing us both until the anticipation became torture.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
I forced my eyes open. His face was a mask of fierce control, sweat beading at his temples and his jaw clenched. He was holding back, and the effort showed in every tense line of his body.
“Are you on birth control? I don’t have a condom.”
I knew better than to trust anyone, but I didn’t care in that moment. I had been on birth control since my assault, but all of that was fog in my head because all I wanted was him.
