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I groan and arch my back, my legs searching for him, needing him. I’m so turned on I can’t handle it.
He presses a clip to my other nipple and I cry out. I’m almost coming from this feeling alone.
‘Open your mouth,’ he says once more.
I do so without question this time. He pours a little more champagne in.
I writhe on the bed, not wanting to imagine what I look like. Not caring. His mouth is on my body, between my breasts, and something cold—champagne—runs over my flesh. My body is hyper-sensitive so even the gentle roll of liquid sends me into an agony of delight.
‘Please,’ I groan.
‘Soon.’ He is enjoying this. Tormenting me. Making me wait. I resolve then and there that I will pay him back for this sweet torment; I will torture him with need.
‘I swear to God, Connor, if you don’t fuck me now...’
‘Trust me,’ he murmurs, and he brings his mouth back to my clit, and more champagne trickles over me. I whimper. His tongue is perfection.
But before I can find release he moves his mouth away again and I make a groan of complaint, my protest loud. He laughs in response.
My nipples are a mix of fire and ice. I jerk at my wrists, wanting to free them, loving that I can’t.
It is a torturous wait, but finally his touch is on my legs, spreading me wide, and he thrusts inside me, hard and fast; at the same time he reaches up and flicks the bulldog clips off so that every cell in my body is screaming at me. The pleasure and pain are tearing me apart and I cry out when he brings his mouth to a nipple and rolls it with his tongue. He lifts away and then his mouth is back, but this time there’s more champagne and the sensation of the ice-cold drink against my throbbing breasts is a pleasure and relief I cannot adequately describe.
I curl my legs around his back as I come but he catches my ankles and lifts them higher, pushing them over his shoulders as he drives into me, and presses hard against my most sensitive flesh, against a cluster of nerve-endings
that is conspiring with Connor to drive me insane with delight.
I bite down on my lip and he lifts a finger to it, pulling it from my mouth roughly, his thumb sliding into me so that I can taste him and tease him with my tongue.
He drops his mouth to my neck, his teeth grating my flesh, and I explode; stars fill my eyes behind the makeshift blindfold. I am broken by the beauty of this feeling even as I am riding the wave. I am aware that this is incomparable and perfect.
He moves once more and I am revived by desire. It is thick inside me.
Suddenly, I need to see him. To know that he is as moved by this as I am. ‘Connor,’ I whisper, and he pauses.
‘Are you okay?’
The doubt in his voice is beyond sexy. It is...sweet. A word I never thought I’d use in reference to Connor Hughes.
‘I want to see you.’
He makes a noise of agreement and reaches down, lifting the blindfold.
It emboldens me.
‘I want to touch you.’
I see now that he is as shredded by our coming together as I am. It is rewarding and important.
‘Soon.’ He drives into me again and speech is lost to pleasure.
When I come this time, and I come hard, he is there with me, his own cries loud and dark to my high-pitched whimper. Even as my breath is finding its rhythm once more, he is reaching for the belt and untying it, freeing my wrists, which he lifts to his mouth and kisses.
My heart squeezes.
It is only then, when his mouth connects to my wrists, that I realise we still haven’t actually kissed.
He has possessed me, body and soul, and yet I do not know the pleasure of his mouth on mine. Yet.
