Page 104 of Heimlock

He helps me stand between his thick thighs. I peer down at him, trying to hide how much my body shakes from both lust and nerves. When his knuckles brush my skin, I shiver. The button pops, exposing my lower belly.

“Look at me,” he commands.

My eyes obey, never leaving his as he works the pants down my thighs. My arms hang limply at my sides; the urge to cover myself is difficult to resist. He must see something in my expression because he pauses.

“You know what we need? To make sure this whole licking business stays as appropriate as possible?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice. If I speak, it’ll be to request using his face as a chair.

“A safe word.”

That throws me back into reality. Forgetting about sitting on his face for a second, I consider, knowing I don’t want to repeat any safe words I’ve had with others. “What is your least favorite food?”

“Someone once told me they like pickles on their pizza,” he says thoughtfully. “So why not pickles?”

I bark out a laugh. “Okay, pickles it is.”

When he smirks, I immediately remember the desire to sit on that charming mouth. Shivers rattle my body when he runs a knuckle along the top of my underwear. My back arches as the hand runs along the back of my thigh, pausing behind my knee.

When he gives it a gentle tug, I shift my weight so he can raise it. His other hand comes to my right hip, holding me steady.

“Now, about this knee,” he says, staring at it. “Is there a particular spot you have in mind?”

“Manservant’s choice,” I say, my voice low.

“Mmm,” he hums. Maintaining eye contact, he swirls his tongue in the center, then nips the tip. I giggle.

Trinte looks to where my underwear barely covers my pussy.

In a voice made of honey and sand, he says, “Anywhere else?”

After a moment’s hesitation, I point at my neck. Pleasure shots right down to my center when he easily lifts and deposits me onto his lap.

“For easier access,” he says, eyes already on my pulse point. He can undoubtedly see how fast blood pumps through my body right now. Considering the hardness pressing against his pants, it’s safe to say he’s feeling the strain as well.

With one of his hands on my lower back, he uses the other to gently tilt my head. His voice rumbles between us as he says, “Is this going to be the final destination before the verdict is reached?”

After swallowing a few times, I’m able to choke out, “Yes, so you better make it good.”

“Always,” he growls, pressing his nose to the spot right below my ear. I can’t help it — I let out the smallest whimper. It feels divine, having him this close, enveloping me with his heat and energy.

When his tongue gives the tiniest lick to my pulse point, I inhale sharply. My hands, demanding an anchor, fly to the back of his neck. It twinges my shoulder, but I hide the wince. He groans when my fingers dig into his scalp. Trinte’s tongue runs along my throat, across my jaw, stopping at my mouth, where he initiates a scathing kiss.

We’re lost in one another, drowning in this demanding thing between us. The same thing that brings us together again and again. It’s ravenous and punishing, demanding as much as it gives. My body burns with need. Judging by his ridged length and the Fyre glowing in his chest, he’s on the exact same page.

The hand on my lower back coaxes my hips forward; they obey with a needy thrust. Trinte moans, deepening the kiss. Grabbing the hand still cupping my face, I deposit it on one of my breasts. Instantly, he’s kneading it and tweaking my nipple. I gasp, tossing my head back, already needing so much more. His tongue laves along my neck; I cry out as he bites my jugular. Those deadly fangs are sharp pinpricks; he could rip out my throat and I’d be helpless to stop him.

“Yes!” I grind against his hardness. My hands grapple for his shirt, desperate for it to be gone. Except he doesn’t lift his arms. I’m not sure why; maybe he thinks if he loses his shirt, that being slow will be impossible.

I’m not sure if this counts as being slow.

Instead of questioning him, I pull down my tank top, offering my breasts as an alternative. He doesn’t hesitate, clamping down on one with a greedy suck. Sparks fly in my vision; my moan is almost embarrassing in its depravity.

“Fuck, Trinte,” I groan, wishing more than anything that he was buried inside me. “You feel so fucking good.”

He hums, a nipple still between his teeth. When he switches breasts, I can’t take it anymore. One of my hands goes to my clit, making furious circles, desperate for friction.

Trinte growls, but doesn’t stop me. Instead, he begins a steady rhythm of sucking and nibbling. His hands support me, one moving my hips and the other between my shoulder blades. Through the chaos, he’s still careful with my wing, which only heightens my pleasure.