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He liked this. He enjoyed watching. She’d have to remember that.
His movements were getting erratic, creating a rhythm echoed by his grunts. Her caveman, motivated only by sensation and need.
And her.
“I’m too close,” he told her, trying to pull away. She lifted a brow and licked him again, hollowing her cheeks to let him know she wasn’t stopping without a fight.
She wanted him to explode in her. Wanted to taste him. Wanted to watch as he lost control. Looking up at him, she released him for a second. “Come in my mouth,” she whispered.
His eyes narrowed. “Not yet.” Pulling away from her, he shucked off his pants and boxers, kicking them to the carpet. His cock jutted out in front of him, strong and sure, and she already missed feeling it between her lips.
“Lay down,” he said, and she realized that the feeling of complete control had only been an illusion. He’d let her take control, at least for a moment.
But now it was Michael’s show. And she liked that. Too much.
She did as she was told, laying back on her coverlet, her hair spilling around her. There was a damp patch on her panties, and he reached out to touch it. Pleasure pulsed through her at his merest touch.
She stared up at him through wide eyes, wondering what he was going to do to her.
“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do right now,” he said, his voice thick.
“Then touch me.”
His lip quirked. “Patience.” He fisted himself once, then twice, his gaze roaming over her body. Then he walked around the bed, as though admiring a work of art.
Except she was the art. And she felt like it right now.
“Show me how you like to be touched,” he told her.
Her cheeks flushed. She felt shy. Exposed. But then he touched himself again and another jolt of desire rushed through her.
Running her hands down to her breasts, she cupped them, letting each finger graze over her nipples. They were tight and aching. Needing more than her own touch. He watched her silently, his chest hitching, as she moved her palms down over her stomach, sliding one beneath her silken panties.
“What do you think of when you touch yourself?” he rasped. He was stroking himself as she slid her finger along her seam, the tip teasing the most sensitive part of herself, making every muscle in her thighs twitch.
“You. That night.”
“What about that night?”
“The way you touched me. Kissed me. Fucked me.”
He pumped again.
“The way you talked dirty to me in French.”
She was circling herself, her breath catching as she reached a steady rhythm.
“Je veux te baiser,” he told her, as her back arched from the bed.
He wanted to fuck her. “Then do it,” she told him.
“Not yet.”
She was on edge now. The way he had been earlier. Her breath catching, her body flushed.
“Don’t come,” he told her.
“But I need…”
