Page 32
As his fingertips make contact with my skin, a sigh escapes my mouth. I feel my body tilting toward him, trying to close the space between us. His lips meet my skin. They are damp, still coated with my blood, and as he trails a line of kisses down my throat, I know he is leaving a trail of scarlet with his mouth.
He lifts his head and stares at me. I’m breathing hard, and fast. My chest rising and falling, and making my breasts even more noticeable beneath my cardigan.
With one expert finger, he flicks open the top button, then the next.
Then he uses the same finger to make me tilt my head back, and he licks the blood from my skin. One, long, torturous movement of his tongue that sends shivers of arousal skittering down the front of my body. Between my breasts, over my stomach, to settle between my legs.
“If I told you to stop, would you?” I meet his eyes.
I don’t know whether I expect him to tell me the truth. But when he says, “Yes,” I believe him.
His hand moves to my waist and unfastens my jeans. He rests his fingers on the waistline of my panties and seems to square his shoulders so he’s taller and bigger, and towering over me.
“Do you want me to stop?” His fingers slip lower but stay on top of the fabric.
I stumble backward a little, leaning on the dresser. He moves with me, his palm now resting between my legs, cupping my pussy, applying just the smallest amount of pressure.
“I’ll ask you again. Do you want me to stop?” His other hand slides my cardigan from my shoulders. It falls to the floor, leaving me in just my white tank top, jeans open.
My hands move instinctively to my belly, but he catches my wrist. Then he lifts my shirt, bends down, and kisses my stomach. A long, lingering kiss.
No one has ever kissed me there before.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to stop.”
He kisses me again, gently grazing the soft skin around my bellybutton with his teeth.
A small, kitten-like murmur escapes my lips, and I find myself tilting my pelvis so I’m pressing down onto his palm.
“So warm,” he murmurs, lifting his gaze to stare up at me. “Does that mean you’re getting wet for me, Luna?”
I can’t answer him. Instead, I just stare.
He moves his lips to the side of my stomach, just above my waist, and inhales deeply. He sighs, nips at my flesh with gentle teeth, then kisses me. “Do you know how many times I have dreamed of kissing this spot?” he growls.
I still cannot answer.
When he takes his hand away from my pussy, I almost whimper.
But then he tugs my jeans down, and slides my panties to one side, and gives me his fingers.
I expect him to go straight for my clit, rubbing it furiously the way Steven used to. Desperate to get me off so he could take his turn. Overstimulating me, not listening to my body or what I wanted. Forcing me to fake it just so it’s over.
Instead, he stares at me, studies my face, as he drags one torturous finger over my soaking wet slit. He strokes me, my inner thighs, my folds, my entrance. He applies pressure, then takes it away. He makes circles, and lines, and never takes his gaze from mine.
My nipples stiffen and strain against the inside of my bra. I desperately want him to tug down my shirt and expose my breasts. I want him to take one in his mouth and suck.
As the thought enters my head, he narrows his eyes.
“What do you want?” he asks in a timbre that makes my knees shake.
I shake my head. “Just keep doing that.” I look down at his hand. His fingers have found my clit and they’re making feather-light circles around it. Not touching it. Not yet.
“What else?” he asks.
When I don’t reply, he uses his other hand to hold my jaw, so my mouth opens. Then he spits into my mouth.
The gesture shocks me. Makes me feel disgustingly dirty and unbelievably turned on at the same time. I grip the dresser harder. He is still holding my mouth open, and he is now pinching my clit. Hard.
