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“Do you hunger for me, Chantel?” he demanded, slowly reclaiming his grip on her nape, winding the claw-tipped hand through a thick lock. He angled her head further and further back, until she teetered, forced to rely on him for balance. “Say it. Say, ‘I hunger for you, Kaysar.’”
Did he need to hear the words? “Yes, Kaysar. I’m ravenous for you.”
His intensity sharpened, beautiful in its brutality. Stripping her of more control. “My name on your ruby lips... I want to watch your beautiful face as I finger you deep. Would you like that, sweetling?”
“Love that.” More diabolical than I realized. No wonder he’d worn only one set of claws. He’d planned this. How...delicious. “Do it. Do it, do it.” As she command-pleaded, she undulated as much as possible, given her position.
He tightened his clasp on her nape and kissed her, his lips firm as his tongue swiped at hers. When he pulled back, he trailed his unencumbered hand up her inner thigh and under her skirt, watching her.
The light graze of his finger against her core set off a chain reaction. A cascade of shivers. Aches. Oh, the aches! Her nipples hardened. Her clit throbbed. Lost in pleasure, she writhed against his hand, seeking more, more, more.
He teased the edges of her sex with lazy up-and-down strokes, drawing closer to the heart of her need but never quite making contact... Those fingers. As hot as a branding iron, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She moaned and gasped and moaned again.
“Your song commands my body.” His words were hoarse, his eyes glassed with desire. The face she’d once touted as stunning proved savage in the firelight. Tension pulled his skin taut. “I hope you’re ready for me, sweetling.”
The words seemed to have more than one meaning. “Yes, I’m read—”
He plunged deep. Again and again. He worked and stretched her. The closer she came to climax, the more strangled her cries sounded.
“So tight.” He slowed his pace, stroking her inner walls with every glide. Easing his fingers almost all the way out...watching her intently, gauging her every reaction. “Look at you, chasing my touch. You adore what I make you feel.”
“I do,” she rasped when he thrust his fingers back in. Out. In. Leaving her empty. Filling her back up. Innnn, outttttt. Incoherent mumblings tripped off her tongue. The pleasure. His obsession with her. That incredible intensity. It was all too much. But stop? She would rather die. “What are you doing to me, Kaysar?”
Inout. Inout. Inoutinoutinout. “Are you desperate for me to stroke your soaked little clit?”
Burning hotter... Sizzling. “Do it. You want to. You said you’d do whatever you wanted...”
“And I always keep my promises.” At last he pressed the pad of his thumb against her clitoris. Her back arched, and she screamed. Sparks. The approach of bliss. Almost shattering. Almost, almost.
“More,” she commanded. So, so, close.
He stirred the digit against her, rubbing an ultra-sensitive spot. Closer...
“I once told you I’d give you everything.” He panted as he leaned down and brushed the tip of his nose against hers, always rubbing. “Do you remember?”
“You want to chat?” Can’t think.
“I do, and we will.” He removed his fingers, leaving her empty and aching. “I asked you a question, Chantel. Do you remember?”
“I remember, I remember. Fingers back in!”
He flittered her to her bed and the entirety of his weight came down upon her. Mmm. This was what she’d missed before. His weight and his heat.
She rolled her hips, grinding on him at her leisure. Hardness on top, a soft mattress beneath. The contrast was breathtaking. “Or we give your fingers a break. This is good, too.”
Kaysar’s harsh groan filled the room. He elevated her arms above her head, urging her to grip the headboard. As soon as she obeyed, he drew back to study her new pose in their new surroundings.
“Touch me,” she said, licking her lips.
Satisfaction oozed from him. “Oh, I will be touching you. Extensively. Your climaxes are a priority for me.”
Just not the top one.
The rogue thought dampened a tendril of her ardor. Then he reached over his shoulder and pulled his shirt over his head, slowly baring his chest—a sculpted chest heavily tattooed with map on top of map.
Cookie forgot everything else, tracing her gaze over lines, landmarks, words, faces, arrows, more lines that zigged and zagged, creating endless paths that led everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
“You should never wear a shirt. Ever,” she told him.
“A request I shall take under advisement.”
“The sight of your muscles makes me wetter.” She caressed his legs with her own. “Does the royal no-shirt policy get a stamp of approval now?”
He smiled, almost sheepish. “It does.”
She imagined sucking on every landmark and groaned. Why not use this opportunity as a cool down? “What do your tattoos mean?”
