Page 101 of Twisting Beauty

“Come here.”

I walked across the bedroom to him, every step feeling charged, the room warmer than the previous nights, or perhaps I was. By the time I stopped in front of him, about an arm length away, my skin already felt too tight.

His hand came up to wrap around the front of my throat, firm without cutting off my air, then he pulled me closer by my neck. His possessive touch went through me like a current and my chest arched toward him before I could stop it.

His eyes dropped to my breasts.

My nipples hardened even more in response.

His gaze moved over me, taking in the low-cut lace nightie, my glossed lips, my smoky eyes, all of it. The corner of his mouth pulled.

He knew. He could see plainly that I’d dressed for him, and the knowledge sat between us.

The heat that rushed up my chest was equal parts want and mortification.

“You want this,” he said, his voice rough.

“No!”

Holding me in place by my neck, he reached out with his free hand and smeared my gloss with his thumb. “Liar…”

He cupped my breast and ran his thumb over my hard nipple. “Liar…”

A rush of pleasure arced through me and I bit back a moan.

He reached down under my nightie, pushed aside my panties with deft fingers, and swiped them over my soaked slit.

“Pussy on fire.”

I stifled a cracked moan as my clit throbbed.

He smirked as he withdrew his hand. He lifted his fingers to his lips and sucked on it as he coaxed me down by my neck.

I dropped to my knees, knowing too much now. What he sounded like when his control started slipping. How his face faltered when he watched me too closely. How badly I wanted him completely undone regardless.

I tried not to pant as I released his cock from his pants. Tried not to moan as I closed my lips around him, as my pussy clenched around air, wanting to know what it felt like to be filled by him. I knew the shape of him, the thickness and length of him, the taste of him.

And I wanted more.

This time, he pushed my hair back from my face, fingers curling at the nape of my neck, angling me so he could see me properly.

His gaze didn’t leave mine, not even for a heartbeat. I felt his eyes burning into me, cataloging every swallow of my throat, every tremble in my hand as I worked him with desperate, hungry precision. My hands circled the base of his cock, and I squeezed, twisted, knowing now exactly how he liked to be touched. My tongue flicked over the head, savoring the salt and musk of him, greedy for whatever reaction I could crack out of his perfect, carved face.

The knuckles of his other hand whitened against the mantel. His chest heaved, every breath more ragged than the last, every muscle trembling with the need to stay in control.

I reveled in it. In his hunger. In the way his sharp, superior features twisted, cracked, exposing something raw and unguarded.

“Good girl,” he breathed, like it was dragged out of him.

God, I hated how those words sent liquid fire straight through me.

His groans roughened. His hips moved with less restraint than before, and one hand fisted at the back of my neck with a kind of desperate need.

I tried not to touch myself.

But heat pooled between my legs, slick arousal dampening my underwear as unbidden images flooded my mind. Him pulling me to my feet, pressing me against the wall, and filling me completely. It was no longer enough to taste him. I craved the feeling of him splitting me open. Wetness slid down my thighs, my body betraying me with its hunger.

My restraint shattered and I reached for my clit with my free hand again.