Play Me by Tracy Wolff

her jaw, down the long, slender column of her neck.
    When I reach my fingers—fi​ngers I’ve used as both a collar and a mind game tonight—I release the hold I’ve had on her for so many long minutes. Aria makes a sound of protest at the loss and it’s a beautiful sound, maybe the most beautiful one I’ve heard from her so far.
    I spend a long time on the hollow of her throat, on the delicate hills and valleys of her collarbone. Kissing, licking, tasting her. Breathing her in. Claiming this part of her.
    Trying my damnedest not to claim
every
part of her as instincts I didn’t know I had are screaming for me to do.
    Instead, I nose at the indention at the base of her throat, lick a long, deep stripe against her skin there. She tastes as sweet as she smells and I want to spend hours, days, learning every inch—every millimeter—of her skin.
    But she’s shaking, strangled cries coming from deep in her throat, and I know I’ve pushed her as far as I can right now. Pushed myself nearly as far. Weeks from now, hell, maybe only days, I’m sure I’ll look back at this moment and think how far we still had to go. But for now it’s enough. More than enough.
    “I’m going to undress you,” I tell her, my fingers going to the buttons of her crisp, white shirt. “I want to see you.”
    “Yes.” It’s half-order, half-plea, and my hands start to tremble as I work the first button through its hold.
    My hands never tremble. The fact that they’re doing so now—I’m not sure what to think, how to feel.
    Because I can’t do anything about them, I ignore them, choosing instead to get to work on the rest of the buttons. And while there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to rip the blouse straight down the middle and to hell with the consequences, I find the control not to. More for Aria’s sake than my own.
    In seconds, her shirt is on the floor beside us and I’m reaching behind her, unfastening the lacy white bra that is about as useless and flimsy as an undergarment can get and still be called a bra. Not that I’m complaining. I can see her areolas through the thin lace—dark pink and aroused and so, so gorgeous. The sight shoots straight to my dick, ratchets up my own want another level or ten.
    Then the bra is gone, too, and she’s standing there in front of me, bare from the waist up.
    Bare and vulnerable and beautiful. So beautiful.
    I lean forward, press a soft kiss to first one breast and then the other. She shudders at my touch, at the brush of my lips against her sensitive skin.
    “Sebastian.” I’m not sure if it’s a warning or a plea, but this time I’m too busy licking across her nipple, sucking it deep into my mouth, to answer.
    Aria lets out a high-pitched, strangled sound that slams through me like a freight train. Her hands come up, clutch at my shoulders. Patiently, I remove them, press them palm first against the glass beside her hips.
    “Keep them there,” I order and though her hips buck against mine, she does what I tell her. At least for now.
    And then I’m nipping at the round, soft undersides of her breasts, kissing and sucking and licking every inch of her that I can. She’s so soft, so sweet, so goddamn beautiful, that I can’t resist.
    More than once I suck hard enough to bruise—I want her to remember this moment when she looks at herself in the mirror in the morning. I want her to remember me as she takes her shower, brushes her teeth, makes her morning coffee.
    Just the thought has me biting a little more sharply than I intended. She cries out, and I murmur an apology into her skin as I soothe the small hurt with my tongue.
    But Aria is shaking her head back and forth against the glass. “Do it—” Her voice breaks and she sucks ragged gulps of air into her lungs. “Do it again.”
    Fuck.
    Those three words are all the encouragement I need. I nip at her again. And again. And again. Each time I stroke my tongue against the small wound to stop the sting,