You want me to take you in hand.
I’d asked for that. Wanted it in the quiet, needy corners of my soul.
At my silence, Rye looks up at me from under the thick fringe of his lashes. Slowly, while holding my gaze, his tongue slides over my hot nipple. I feel it between my legs, in the tight clench of my stomach. A whimper escapes, and he responds with a deep, sharp suck.
“Shit.”
Rye chuckles in pure male satisfaction, releasing my nipple with a decadent pop. His lips touch my wet flesh. “Unzip your skirt.”
Not a request.
I shouldn’t like it. I shouldn’t.
My hands tremble, fingers fumbling to comply.
He doesn’t watch to see if I do. He’s preoccupied with peppering light suckling kisses across my chest, seeking out my poor, neglected other nipple to torment. But the second the skirt slides to the floor to pool at my feet, he hums in satisfaction.
“Good, Bren. That’s a good girl.”
He kisses me soft and dirty, a lazy lick into my mouth, his thumbs gently rolling my stiff nipples. The combination has me mewling, arching my back to beg for more and harder. And he smiles against my lips, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me and loving it. His mouth slides away, and I tilt my head to the side, panting and so hot I am heavy with it.
Hands kneading my breasts, he sinks to his knees, mouth mapping its way down my belly, over the flimsy line of my panties. He pauses between my legs, lips pressed to the wet silk that clings to my aroused flesh, and, oh, God, he inhales, like he’s drawing me into his lungs.
A groan tears from him. “I needed this.”
Fingers hook into my undies to drag them down my hips. Big hands bracket my thighs, spreading them wide to expose me to his view. Rye’s lashes lower, a look of almost exquisite pain flashing across his face. “I needed this so much.”
Then his mouth is on me. And I’m the one groaning, my body a live wire. I writhe against the cool, hard wall, my fingers scrambling to clutch at his hair so I can pull him closer, hold him to me.
Oral sex is a skill. Rye has skills. But that isn’t what has me on fire, my body rushing toward an incandescent orgasm. It’s his unfettered devotion to devouring me, as if I’m his last meal, his first.
When he grunts, a greedy, wet, selfish sound—mouth hot and seeking, fingers biting into my ass—I fall apart, melt right there at the edge of his room. But Rye doesn’t let me go. He eases me through it, holds me steady. Hot blue eyes gaze up at me from between the pale columns of my trembling thighs. He nuzzles my swollen clit with the soft bristle of his beard, nibbles on the little aftershocks before all but purring against my sex.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment. Rye runs his hands up and down my legs, feeling their contours, trailing his fingers along the curves of my calves, the backs of my thighs. With a lingering squeeze, he rises.
“Let’s get you comfortable, Berry.” He tugs me into the shelter of his big body. “Because I’m not nearly done with you.”
How had I managed this long without having this? How do I go on when it’s gone? For the first time in my sex life, I’m afraid. Not because I think Rye will hurt me; I trust him implicitly with my care. But because I’ve lost control.
Control has always been mine, no matter the partner, no matter the situation.
Rye is another story. Hell, he’s a whole other genre.
I can’t control Rye. I can’t control my feelings when I’m with him. I’m on a Tilt-a-Whirl in the dark, terrified the harness might snap.
Rye steps to me, all hard focus and softly smiling mouth.
“I didn’t come here for sex,” I blurt out.
He pauses, head cocked, that small curve at the corners of his lips remaining. Calm blue eyes search my face, assessing. “Do you want to leave?”
Lord, but his voice is rich with arousal. He doesn’t move but stands loose-limbed, a lovely flush of exertion on his cheeks. I want to trace my palms down the thick column of his neck where I know his skin will be like satin over steel. Do I want to leave?
“No.”
“Hmm…” His voice dips with quiet amusement as he leans in. Smiling lips brush along the sweet spot under my ear, as those clever fingers ease the blouse and dangling bra from my shoulders. “Do you want a drink?”
He asks the question while taking my hand to help me step out of the pile of clothes surrounding my feet, leaving me in nothing but my petal pink Louboutins.
Rye’s gaze slides over me like hot cream. “There you are. God. Look at you…” He licks his bottom lip, a man thirsty. “Damn, Bren, you blow my mind.”