Miles laughs a little, a dark and smoky sound that has my every nerve ending standing at attention. And then he’s slipping one hand beneath my hips, lifting my hips even higher. Putting me even more on display as he slides his tongue deep inside me.

“Miles!” It’s a high, keening cry as I go into sensory overload. His strong hands clenched on my hips, his silky hair tickling my thighs, his warm, wet tongue plunging inside me over and over again. I want to turn around, want to grab his dick in my hand, want to slide it into my mouth and give him even half the pleasure he’s giving me. But I can barely move, can barely breathe as pleasure swamps me.

Desperate, overwhelmed, chasing an orgasm that’s so close I can all but taste it, I clench my fists in the cool cotton of the sheets. Bury my face in the softness of a nearby pillow. Rock my hips against the heat of his mouth.

He groans a little then, his hands sliding down to press my thighs open even more. I love the heat and the roughness of them, love the fact that I can feel his calluses and his need as he strokes along my sex and around and around my clit. Love the feel of his stubble scratching against the backs of my thighs as he thrusts his tongue deeper, deeper, deeper.

Love even more—love, the most—how I can feel his hands tremble with the same want—the same need—that’s rocketing through me and yet he can still be gentle. Still make me sigh when I usually scream. Still make me feel cherished.

It’s not the same as all the other times we’ve made love—there’s no desperate race to completion, no frantic fumbling in an effort to get him inside me as soon as I possibly can. No less powerful for that, no less real and raw and devastating.

Because I love him.

The knowledge hits me like a tsunami, rolling through me in waves so powerful that they slam me over the edge, hurtling me into orgasm and the abyss that follows, where nothing but pleasure—endless, soul-destroying pleasure—exists.

Miles makes a sound deep in his throat as I come. He takes me through it, takes me higher and higher and higher, until tears stream down my face and my body feels like it belongs more to him than to me. Like I belong to him instead of to myself.

It’s a terrifying thought…and a comforting one, made bearable only by the knowledge that I love him. And that in this moment it feels right, feels necessary, to give him this. To give him all of me.

I start to come down, just a little, and he rolls me over onto my back. I reach for him, try to wrap my arms around him as I expect him to slide between my thighs. To slide his rock-hard erection deep inside me.

But he doesn’t cover me, doesn’t slide inside me, doesn’t fuck me as I so want him to. Instead he drapes my legs over his shoulders and once again buries his face in my sex.

I nearly shoot off the bed at the first stroke of his tongue on my oversensitive flesh. “Miles, no,” I gasp, trying to wiggle away from the pleasure so keen it’s almost pain.

He doesn’t answer, at least not vocally. But his hands tighten on my thighs, his tongue stiffens as he works it around and around my clit and I go back under without a fight. I drown in sensation, drown in him, because right now I can refuse this man nothing. Can hold nothing back as he claims with tenderness what so many other men have tried to take by domination.

And then I’m coming again, words I barely hear let alone comprehend spilling from my mouth as I reach for him.

“Please, Miles. Please, baby, please. Please. Please.” The words are a desperate mantra, motivated more by emotional than physical need as I clutch at his shoulders, as I try to drag him up and over me. As I try to convince him to come inside me even now that my brain is mush and my body is sated.

As I try to convince him to finally, finally, take away the last of the emptiness deep inside me.

He must understand—or maybe his rigid self-control has finally reached its breaking point—because for the first time since he put me on this bed, Miles slides up to cover my body with his own.

It’s a shock to feel him—hot and hard and naked—against me, as I don’t remember him shedding his clothes. But he feels so good that I don’t care about the logistics. All I care about is wrapping my legs around his thighs and sliding my sex against his cock.

He makes an incoherent sound that might be my name, and then he’s cupping my face between his big, rough hands. Tilting my head back. Licking his way deep inside my mouth.

It’s almost enough to take away the emptiness, almost enough to sate this need inside me that has only grown with the two spectacular orgasms he’s given me. But then he’s pulling away and I’m whimpering, clutching at him, winding myself around him in a desperate bid to keep the man I have somehow fallen in love with exactly where I want him. Where I need him.

He curses softly, leans down to kiss me again even as he reaches out and fumbles in the top drawer of the nightstand. Then he’s pulling away, opening the small foil packet with his teeth. Pulling out the condom.

He starts to put it on, but I take it from him and bat his hands away. No matter how desperate he is, he always remembers to take care of me and here, now, I want to take care of him, too. So I slide down until my shoulders are between his knees. Then I lift my head and take him in, not stopping until my nose is against his abdomen and his cock is all the way down my throat.

“Fuck, Tori!” The words are ripped from him as he tries to pull back a little, determined—even now—to make things as easy for me as he can.

But I don’t want easy, not now, not with him. And so I follow him, sitting up even as my hands slide around to cup his ass and jerk him forward.

“Tori, baby, I don’t want to hurt—” He breaks off with a groan as I slide my tongue back and forth along the underside of his dick, before flicking gently at the spot where the head meets the shaft. I use my hands to pull him forward again, use my mouth and tongue and throat to take him even deeper.

And then he’s cursing even as he leans forward and braces a hand on the headboard. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice hoarse and dark and desperate. And still he’s gentle as his hand slides down to cup my cheek, as his eyes search mine for any hint of doubt.

I have none, not now, not with Miles. And so I do the only thing I can do, clench my hands on his gorgeous ass and pull him even deeper.

It must be the right thi

ng to do, because suddenly Miles loses all that gorgeous control of his. Suddenly he looks—and feels—as desperate for me as I am for him.

Tags: Tracy Wolff Ethan Frost Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net