me.
Later,
when I think about it, I’ll be sure he moved first. But the truth is we moved
at the same time. I reach for him at the same time he wraps a hand around my
neck, lifting me up.
His
lips meet mine, and the world explodes. Everything is about him, about the
rough urgency of his lips against mine, and his hands that shift me, just the right
angle to my head. His tongue licks over the seam of my lips and I gasp, and
he’s everywhere, his tongue tangling with mine.
He’s
not just kissing me. He’s devouring and conquering, claiming me. And I make a
tiny little noise, almost a mewl , and let him.
His
body comes down, knees on either side of me, and I want more of his weight,
more of that maddening lazy tongue, more of his clever fingers, brushing over
my skin, everywhere and nowhere.
“More,”
I gasp, and he grins against my lips.
“More
what, perfect girl?” he murmurs. “Tell me what you want.”
Tell
him what I want? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I shake my head and his
lips skate down my jaw, over my throat in wet, nipping kisses that have me
aching. He pushes my shirt, a blue button-down over a white, lace-trimmed cami , aside, and his fingers are on my breasts, circling
and circling, endless torture. “Do you want my mouth here?” he murmurs, and I
flush.
Why
can’t he just fuck me? Why must he hear it? His fingers ghost over my nipple,
pinch sharply, and I gasp, “ Yes.”
Rike
makes a low growl and yanks my cami down, shoving
aside the pale pink bra cup and I moan as the wet heat of his mouth closes over
me, pulling hard on my nipple. His teeth rake over it and I almost come off the
damn chaise. His hands are moving, one cupping my breast through the clothes,
the other skating lower, sliding under the hem of my shirt to play over my
torso. His tongue circles my nipple, slow and lazy, and I jerk on his hair,
pulling him up and kissing him. He groans, and I can almost feel him fighting
to pull away. His gaze is clouded and hungry when he demands, “What do you
want, Peyton? Do you want my fingers”—he brushes against me over my jeans with
his fingers and I shiver—“or do you want my tongue?” I shudder, my head falling
back. A low chuckle rolls over me. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.
Tell me how bad you want to come riding my lips.”
I
shake my head and he unzips my jeans, and slips a hand inside. I scream as his
fingers slip through me, playing over me, and his thumb rubs over my clit.
“Say
it, Peyton,” he demands hoarsely. “Say what you want.”
“You,”
I whimper.
He
curses. “Not enough. Tell me you want me to tongue-fuck you. That you want to
taste yourself on my lips when I’m inside you. Tell me.”
His
fingers move again and I growl, “Fucking do it or don’t. Get me off or don’t
but don’t fucking toy with me. Yes, goddammit, I want you to eat me out until I
come.”
He
grins, and moves, faster than I can really process. One second he’s hovering
above me, and the next he’s between my thighs, my jeans hanging around my
ankles as he lowers his head and then nothing matters. There is only the glide
of his tongue against me, the fluttering pressure as he tongues my clit, and
the slow thrust of his fingers. He licks at me, the tip of his tongue circling,
until I have my hands in his hair and my body is moving, writhing against him
as he uses lips and tongue and teeth to drive me fucking insane.
My
whole body is tight, and I gasp when he thrusts into me with his tongue, my
vagina clenching down when he pinches my clit, a delicious agony.
His
fingers are against my ass, smoothing over my cheeks as his tongue fucks into
me, and he slaps me, a sharp hard slap, and I splinter, screaming as I come, a
wave of sensation that rips through me. He’s rising before my heartbeat slows,
and he kisses me.
And
despite the tiny voice screaming at me to stop, I lick at his lips, at the
taste of me on his tongue.
He
slams into me while we’re
Later,
when I think about it, I’ll be sure he moved first. But the truth is we moved
at the same time. I reach for him at the same time he wraps a hand around my
neck, lifting me up.
His
lips meet mine, and the world explodes. Everything is about him, about the
rough urgency of his lips against mine, and his hands that shift me, just the right
angle to my head. His tongue licks over the seam of my lips and I gasp, and
he’s everywhere, his tongue tangling with mine.
He’s
not just kissing me. He’s devouring and conquering, claiming me. And I make a
tiny little noise, almost a mewl , and let him.
His
body comes down, knees on either side of me, and I want more of his weight,
more of that maddening lazy tongue, more of his clever fingers, brushing over
my skin, everywhere and nowhere.
“More,”
I gasp, and he grins against my lips.
“More
what, perfect girl?” he murmurs. “Tell me what you want.”
Tell
him what I want? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I shake my head and his
lips skate down my jaw, over my throat in wet, nipping kisses that have me
aching. He pushes my shirt, a blue button-down over a white, lace-trimmed cami , aside, and his fingers are on my breasts, circling
and circling, endless torture. “Do you want my mouth here?” he murmurs, and I
flush.
Why
can’t he just fuck me? Why must he hear it? His fingers ghost over my nipple,
pinch sharply, and I gasp, “ Yes.”
Rike
makes a low growl and yanks my cami down, shoving
aside the pale pink bra cup and I moan as the wet heat of his mouth closes over
me, pulling hard on my nipple. His teeth rake over it and I almost come off the
damn chaise. His hands are moving, one cupping my breast through the clothes,
the other skating lower, sliding under the hem of my shirt to play over my
torso. His tongue circles my nipple, slow and lazy, and I jerk on his hair,
pulling him up and kissing him. He groans, and I can almost feel him fighting
to pull away. His gaze is clouded and hungry when he demands, “What do you
want, Peyton? Do you want my fingers”—he brushes against me over my jeans with
his fingers and I shiver—“or do you want my tongue?” I shudder, my head falling
back. A low chuckle rolls over me. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.
Tell me how bad you want to come riding my lips.”
I
shake my head and he unzips my jeans, and slips a hand inside. I scream as his
fingers slip through me, playing over me, and his thumb rubs over my clit.
“Say
it, Peyton,” he demands hoarsely. “Say what you want.”
“You,”
I whimper.
He
curses. “Not enough. Tell me you want me to tongue-fuck you. That you want to
taste yourself on my lips when I’m inside you. Tell me.”
His
fingers move again and I growl, “Fucking do it or don’t. Get me off or don’t
but don’t fucking toy with me. Yes, goddammit, I want you to eat me out until I
come.”
He
grins, and moves, faster than I can really process. One second he’s hovering
above me, and the next he’s between my thighs, my jeans hanging around my
ankles as he lowers his head and then nothing matters. There is only the glide
of his tongue against me, the fluttering pressure as he tongues my clit, and
the slow thrust of his fingers. He licks at me, the tip of his tongue circling,
until I have my hands in his hair and my body is moving, writhing against him
as he uses lips and tongue and teeth to drive me fucking insane.
My
whole body is tight, and I gasp when he thrusts into me with his tongue, my
vagina clenching down when he pinches my clit, a delicious agony.
His
fingers are against my ass, smoothing over my cheeks as his tongue fucks into
me, and he slaps me, a sharp hard slap, and I splinter, screaming as I come, a
wave of sensation that rips through me. He’s rising before my heartbeat slows,
and he kisses me.
And
despite the tiny voice screaming at me to stop, I lick at his lips, at the
taste of me on his tongue.
He
slams into me while we’re
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