Page 32 of Sting of Sin

“You sure?”

“Ask me again and I’m going to bite you.”

My mouth twitched. “There she is.”

She did bite me then. Not hard. Just the edge of my lower lip, a quick pressure that sent something hot and sharp straight through me.

“Bee.”

“That one,” she whispered.

“What?”

“One of the three ways.”

I stared at her.

Then she laughed.

Softly.

It was not a sound I had heard enough in my life, and never like this. Never breathless against my mouth, never with her hands still buried in my hair.

I kissed her again just to feel the laugh disappear into me.

It was slow after that.

Slow, but not cold.

There was heat in it now, a deepening current under every careful touch.

She led every inch, and I followed.

When she wanted my hands higher, she took one of them and guided it. When she wanted me closer, she pulled. When a touch startled her, I stopped before she had to ask. Every time I felt her go still, I went still too and waited until she told me, with her eyes or her breath or the pressure of her fingers, whether to go on.

She always, eventually, told me yes.

Sometimes in a whisper.

Sometimes with a nod.

Sometimes by closing the distance herself.

The first time my mouth touched the line beneath her ear, her whole body shivered.

I stopped.

She breathed once, twice.

Then tilted her head to give me more room.

“Again,” she said.

So I did.

Softer.

Her hands slid from my hair to my shoulders. I felt her grip through my shirt, felt the effort in her not to disappear from the moment when sensation rose too fast.