Page 94 of Show Me

I use my thumbs first, spreading her open. Beautiful. Absolute perfection. She makes a frustrated sound, and I almost smile, almost, but then I lean in and taste her sweet pussy and the sound she makes wipes everything else away.

“Fuck.” It’s out before I can stop it, my voice wrecked against her thigh. She tastes like salt and want, and I can’t get enough, licking into her, finding the rhythm that makes her hips buck off the bed. I hold her down with one hand on her stomach, feeling the muscles contract under my palm, and I don’t stop.

My tongue finds her clit, and I stay there, pressure steady, listening to her breathing change, feeling her fingers tighten in my hair. She’s close. I feel it in the way she goes still, the way her thighs try to close around my head. I grip her hip harder, keep her open, and slide two fingers inside heat. Her molten hot heat.

She cries out, arching off the bed, and I curl them up, finding the spot that makes her gasp my name. “Xavier.” My name, broken, desperate.

“Like that?” My cock throbs with the need to be inside of her, but this is about her. About her pleasure.

“Yes. Yes.“ She’s babbling now, incoherent, and I keep the rhythm, tongue and fingers working her, feeling her squeeze around me, feeling the moment she stops breathing right before she breaks.

She comes hard, pulsing around my fingers, her whole body shaking with it. Moans and a litany of ‘fuck, yes, oh my god’ falling from her lips. I don’t stop until she pushes at my shoulder, oversensitive, and I pull back, pressing one last kiss to her thigh, her hip, her stomach. She’s still trembling.

I move up the bed and settle beside her, not touching, not yet. Watching her come back to herself, her chest heaving, her eyes closed, her hand thrown over her face like she’s hiding.

I reach out and pull her hand away. Look at her. She’s wrecked, beautiful, and I did that.

“Ruby.” It’s rough, unplanned, and I feel her freeze when she hears it, the way I said it, what I didn’t mean to show. I clear my throat. Shift back. “You good?”

She opens her eyes and looks at me, and for a moment, I think she sees it. Everything. The thing I shouldn’t feel, the thing I promised wasn’t part of this. The thing that isn’t part of this.

“Yes.” She nods, slow, and reaches for my shirt. “Your turn.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Ruby

“Your turn.” The words come out so husky it doesn’t sound like my own voice.

I’m floating, my body warm and loose. I reach for him before I can think better of it. My hand finds his chest, then lower, pressing against the hard line straining against his jeans.

He inhales sharply, stills. I like that I can do that to him. I like that he’s not as controlled as he pretends to be.

I push up on one elbow and kiss him, tasting the salt of my own skin on his mouth, the faint bitterness that should embarrass me but doesn’t. Not with him. Not when he groans into it, when his hand finds my waist and grips tight like he’s anchoring himself.

“Ruby.” My name against my lips, rough, wrecked.

I don’t answer. I keep kissing him, deeper, my hand working his button open, and he lets me. He helps me, lifting his hips so I can pull the denim off, and then his cock is in my hand, hot and heavy and perfect. I stroke his cock once, twice, feel him twitch and thicken, and I want to taste him. I want to make him feel what I felt.

I start to shift down the bed, my mouth watering, but his hand catches my shoulder, firm, pulling me back up.

“No.” His voice is strained, desperate. “Can’t wait.”

He reaches past me, fumbling for his wallet in his pants, and tears the wrapper with his teeth, his hands shaking. I take it from him and roll the condom down his length with more force than necessary, tugging rough at the base. He hisses, hips bucking into my grip.

“Fuck.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Ruby–”

I grip his cock again, stroke him hard, and he groans, long and low. Then his hands are on me, everywhere, like he can’t stop touching me now that he’s started. My breasts, my waist, between my legs again, and I’m still sensitive, still tender, but I don’t pull away. I spread my legs for him, and he finds me wet, swollen, and I gasp against his mouth.

“I can’t–” I start, because I’ve never, never twice, but he’s circling my clit with his thumb and I feel it building again, impossible, too much.

“Yes, you can.” His voice in my ear, low, commanding. “Let me.”

He’s touching me with purpose now, with knowledge of what I like, and I’m rocking into his hand, stroking him harder, losing track of everything. We move together, clumsy, urgent, and I feel it building again, that tight spiral, his fingers curling inside me while I grip him tight and his hips are thrusting into my hand.

“That’s it.” He’s watching me, eyes dark, fixed on my face. “Let me feel you.”

I break apart, shuddering against him, and he groans, long and low, and I feel him pulse in my hand, thick and urgent, and then he’s moving, fast, desperate, rolling me onto my back and settling between my thighs in one motion. His hands grip my hips, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, and he drives into me in a single thrust that tears a cry from my throat.