Dark Embers by Tessa Adams

and tongue and breath coming at her again and again until sanity was only an abstract concept.
    Soon she was going beyond individual orgasms to a place where the overwhelming pleasure went on and on and on. She twisted desperately, tugged at his shoulders, begged for the satisfaction of his cock within her slick channel. And still he pushed her, until she was sobbing, mindless, an animal driven by the sweet, hot edge of pleasure and pain.
    Her body was no longer her own. It was under his complete control, enthralled, desperate, dying. In those moments, it didn’t matter that he was different, that she wanted to study him. Didn’t matter that he was paying her three million dollars to help him and being less than straightforward about it. All that mattered was his lack of selfishness, the way he made her feel. That he could take anything from her but instead only wanted to bring her joy—incredible, mind-boggling joy—was the biggest turn-on of them all.
    He spiked his tongue, swirled it inside her before pulling out and going for her clit again. Another wave snuck up on her, slammed through her, and then she was pushing him away. Rolling over. Ripping his jeans and T-shirt off and skimming her mouth over his chest and rock-hard biceps.
    He had a tattoo on his left arm, a black tribal band made up of shapes and symbols she’d never seen before. She ran her tongue over the curlicues, lingered on the sharp angles before sliding down his arm and softly kissing the wicked-looking scar that ran the length of his upper arm.
    He shuddered at the touch of her lips, and suddenly she wanted to take him higher, make him crazier. Sliding down his stomach, she took his incredibly long, incredibly hot cock in her mouth.
    “Fuck, Phoebe,” he groaned, his hands fisting in her hair as she got her first taste of him. He was delicious, and it was her turn to tease, her turn to swirl her tongue down and around him until he was breathing in great shudders, his lower body arching off the bed, as desperate for her as she had been for him.
    “Have mercy,” he murmured.
    But there was no mercy in her, nothing but the driving need to take him as high as he had taken her. She slipped her mouth down the hard length of him, lingered at the base for a moment as he slid down her throat. Then pulled back with a long, lingering swipe of her tongue.
    “Don’t tease.” It was a gasp. Sweat poured off him as his body shuddered beneath hers. “Please, just do it.”
    But she couldn’t. She wasn’t ready for it to end yet, wasn’t ready to see Dylan’s passion-glazed features go lax with satisfaction. She wanted him as needy as she had been—and still was. She had to have him as desperate to be inside her as she was to have him there.
    And so she continued her ministrations, slipping and sliding over him. She relinquished his cock for a moment, slipped farther down his body to take his balls in her mouth, to lick the space behind them with hard strokes of her tongue that had him arching and pleading, much as she had done only minutes before.
    The power was a beautiful thing, the understanding that brainy little Phoebe, as she had always been called, could drive this beautiful specimen of manhood to insanity and beyond.
    “Do it!” His voice was harsh, his hands tight and unyielding in her hair as he pulled her up. He was beyond gentleness, beyond thinking, and she loved him this way. As she licked back up to where he wanted her, she noticed the clear drops of fluid on the head of his cock and wanted to roar her triumph. She had driven him beyond control, to the brink of an orgasm he refused to take without her.
    But the choice wasn’t his anymore. She was in control now, and his body would give her what she demanded.
    She licked the pre-ejaculate off, dawdled for a few long moments over the sexy length of him as he writhed beneath her, his hands in her hair a snare she had no wish to escape. “You have to . . . Phoebe, please . . . I can’t