Page 7 of Almost Ravaged

Tytus rounds the corner, his massive frame blocking out the black light and overtaking all my senses. He’s in my space, his scent in my nostrils. The heat radiating off his body serves as my own personal cocoon.

I gulp, tamping down on the intensity of my reaction, though mostly unsuccessfully.

I have no chill today, clearly.

“There you are. You’re okay?” He hovers close, one hand suspended as if he wants to caress my cheek. Like he needs the confirmation.

I roll my lips to keep from laughing at his earnestness. I’m fine. More than fine. It’s just laser tag.

“Sawyer?” he urges.

“I’m okay.” I push off the wall and inch closer. “Slightly salty you shot me earlier,” I hedge with the shrug of one shoulder. “But otherwise fine.”

He searches my face, his expression unreadable in the near dark. When his tongue darts out to wet his lips, my own does the same.

“Maybe I could make it up to you.” He brushes his fingers against mine and angles in impossibly closer.

I tilt my head back, silently welcoming the offer.

His eyes flit between mine with urgency as he shifts forward again, only to nudge the laser gun still lodged between my thighs.

Frowning, he peers into the inch of space between us. When understanding registers, he breaks into a wily smirk and snakes one large hand toward the weapon, allowing his fingertips to brush the waistline of my leggings.

I startle, my heart jumping into my throat, when his fingers brush along my stomach and keep traveling lower. No one has ever touched methere, and suddenly, I’m anxious about what it might feel like. Not just for me, but for him. I’m almost certain I’ve sweated through my underwear and that if he lingered there, he’d feel the warmth and the moisture I can’t control. Am I too wet? Too soft? Too–

“Fuck, mon ange,” he groans.

Breath catching, I zero in on his face. His eyes are closed and his head is tipped back, exposing the cords of muscle in his thick neck.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of touching you like this?”

Oh.

Exhaling, I will my muscles to relax. I roll my hips forward, straining to give him better access, and steal a desperate glance down between our bodies. In the dark, the details are impossible to make out, but I want to commit this visual to memory anyway.

“Eyes on me.”

As if he’s taken over control of my body, I obey.

His brows are furrowed in concentration, his lids hooded. He’s never looked more beautiful. With a heavy sigh, he rubs over my mound. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” I breathe. This is more than okay. It’s everything I’ve secretly wanted for so long.

Without breaking eye contact, he clutches my hip, steadying me, then adjusts the laser gun between my legs so the shaft is pressed firmly into the apex of my thighs. His hand is so large and so impossibly close to the warm, aching center above the gun.

He never breaks eye contact as he compresses the trigger, forcing the weapon to fire at his chest.

The vibration the gun makes as it recoils ricochets through my core, and a whimper escapes my lips.

His eyes light up. “How many times did I shoot you, mon ange?”

I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

“Was it twice?” he asks, feigning innocence. Without waiting for a response, he fires the laser again.

Oh.

The vibration is mild, and yet I feel it in the deepest depths of my insides.