Page 299 of A Taste of Vanilla

My head tips back.

He slides one hand up my thigh to my hip, the other spreading over my ass, guiding the rhythm when I lose it. His fingers press into me hard enough to leave a mark, and the thought makes me clench around his head. He groans again, absolute pleasure spilling from him.

I look down and nearly come from the sight alone.

Warren beneath me, hair loose against the mattress, tattoos dark over his chest and shoulders, eyes open and fixed on my face like watching me fall apart is the only thing he ever wanted to be good at.

His mouth becomes firmer, his tongue stroking exactly where I need him, then circling and sucking until the pleasure snapsbright and sharp through me. I try to lift away when it feels too much, and his hands clamp down on my hips.

“Stay,” he says against me.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“It’s too much.”

“I know.” His eyes stay on mine. “Give me one.”

I break. Hard.

My release punches through me so fast I barely have time to breathe before I’m shaking over him, thighs trembling against his head, his name tearing out of me in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like mine.

It sounds alive.

He holds me through it, mouth softer now, hands still steady around my thighs. When I finally come down from the high, he flips me over, my back hitting the bed as a surprised whoosh leaves me.

Warren grabs my leg, kissing up my thigh. “I need you inside of me,” I whisper.

He closes his eyes. “I know.”

“Don’t say that unless you’re about to do something about it.”

His mouth curves. “I’m about to, Hal.”

He stands, and I sit up.

“But first,” he says, and his hand slides to his jeans. “I want you to look at me while you take me out.”

My breath catches.

I shift back to open his jeans. My hands aren’t steady while he watches me with heavy-lidded focus as I drag the zipper down and push denim and briefs low enough to free him.

The first glimpse of him steals the air out of my lungs.

Hard, thick, flushed. The piercing gleaming in the low light, one piece through the base of the head, the other right under.

I wrap my fingers around him and feel his body jolt.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

The word is so unlike his controlled kitchen voice that heat floods through me again.

I stroke him once, slowly, letting my thumb brush against the metal. His hips push into my hand.

I do it again.

His hand locks around my wrist, not stopping me, just holding on like I’ve found the one thing holding the last of his control together.