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Sixteen
Savannah
The second histeeth pressed into the soft, tender flesh of my lip, I moaned. I had no choice.
It hurt.
It stung.
It was exquisite.
I needed that more than he could know, more than he could possibly recognize.
A growl escaped him as he pressed down harder, enough that my ass clenched and I popped up onto tiptoes once more as I moved into him to diminish the sting. As I did, I lowered my hands, pressing them to his pecs, touching him, softening him with my caresses, needing him to keep on biting, to never let go, but wanting the pain to fade.
A whimper escaped me when, finally, he released his hold, but not for long. Just enough time for him to slip his tongue between my lips, to thrust it against mine. To take my mouth. To claim it. To do as I’d known he always would—to possess me.
Own me.
God, how I needed him to own me.
My whimper morphed into a mewl as he ate into my mouth, teasing me and tearing into me, ripping me apart and building me back together.
I cried out as his hands finally moved, those long fingers and wide palms pressing into me, parting my ass wider until the tips dug into my labia.
I knew I was wet.
Shamefully so.
Ridiculously so.
My body was a patchwork quilt of bruises and aches after last night, but I didn’t feel any of it. Didn’t know it was there because my pussy had taken control. Just like it had been begging to for years.
As he fucked my mouth, I let him, head tipped back, taking everything he gave until he started to pull away. The second he did, I followed, not letting him stop, wanting him to carry on, needing this to never stop, to forever continue. To always happen.
A growl escaped him the longer I tangled my tongue with his, when I started to fight back, to fuck back, to savor and sample, to taste and to tease.
Soon, we weren’t just sharing saliva, but air. I could feel his cock digging into me as much as I could feel the exertion that came from breathing with how heavily his torso rubbed up against mine. Then he lifted me. By my ass alone, and I squeaked,squealed,pulling back because I wasn’t sure what he was doing until he raised me to the massage table.
The brute strength of the move, because I wasn’t a small woman, and because of his injury had my heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t like he’d carried me across the Brooklyn Bridge, but still, it was unanticipated.
No more so than when he dove for my throat and started sucking down on it, biting it and nibbling it before palpating his tongue against it, continuously raking his teeth down against the flesh so I knew I’d be wearing a hickey.
A groan escaped me as my head tipped back, giving him better access, needing that to be the biggest fucking hickey any woman had ever worn. Maybe, every time he saw it, he’d remember. Be reminded of what we had together—this insane chemistry that hadn’t died with the years that separated us, that couldn’t even, I believed, be killed through neglect. Something this powerful just couldn’t fade away.
Then he froze, and just when I thought I’d lost him, when I felt sure he was going to walk away, he rasped, "I need to shut the door."
Dazed, I blinked at him. "What? Why?"
"Conor—" He growled. "I don’t want him to see you like this."
Touched, I slipped my fingers through his hair, dragging my nails along his scalp, feeling his shudder as he bit me there, like he couldn’t stop himself from touching me that way.
Good.
"He’s busy," I rasped.
I had to pray that he was, because sweet lord, I didn’t give a damn if his brothers waded in so long as they fucked off immediately.
