Page 114 of Cakes for the Grump

His explorations get bolder. The heat of his hands smooth over the lines of my back. Death by sensual massage at the slowest pace, as if he wants to memorize and pay tender at the altar of every part of me he has been given access too. As if there will never be another chance again.

“So soft,” I think I hear him whisper. His voice is a ghost. And so is the rest of his body. He’s holding himself away. All he gives me are his hands.

“I have others,” I volunteer. “Freckles.”

“Where?”

“I…suppose a fiancé should know these things.”

Finishing the last of my straps, his hands slide down to hold me by the hips. I try to push back and make contact with the front of him, but he keeps me in place.

I won’t protest. Protesting will make it clear what I want.

Instead, I say, “I’ve got the kind of hips that make great handles. That’s what I’ve been told.”

His gaze lifts and finds mine in the mirror, sharpened into something predatory; something feral. “Darling, I don’t want to hear you talk about other men who have seen you naked. It would be too easy to get their names, get their social insurance numbers, and ruin their lives.”

“You wouldn’t?—”

“There is little I wouldn’t do when it comes to you.” Violent arousal spikes through me at his next blatant declaration. “I’m your fiancé.”

His jaw rolls as he holds my gaze. He’s waiting for me to be terrified. To scurry out of here. To stop this from going any further. My hands clutching the front of my dress ease their grip. The material drops, exposing the tops of my breasts. He hisses. I keep going. A bit lower. More. The flash of a nipple.

Luke lunges his hands forward, trapping me in between his arms and chest and the counter. His head drops down onto the back of my neck. “Fuck, Rita. You need to leave. I can’t. Don’t. My control isn’t good right now. I want to?—”

“Want to what?” Is that my voice? Such a whine. “What happens if I stay? What do you want to do?”Tell me I’m not alone.

His head lifts, and the eyes are all pupil. “Taste.”

I turn and see the front of his trousers. He’s hard. The thick ridge is painfully big. My dress pools at my hips because I’ve let go, my hands reaching up into his hair. Luke reaches around and grips the back of my bum. His mouth latches onto my nipple, sucking hungrily like a man starved. That groan I’ve been holding in? It fills the room.

His mouth laves at my breast and an answering beat throbs between my legs. Once, twice, three times—I lose count of how long and hard he sucks on me. When he drags his mouth to the other breast, he glances up at me. “Is this okay?” he asks, mouth hovered above the other nipple.

“Don’t stop,” I beg. “Please.”

His tongue circles it slowly. “Are you sure? Tell me to leave you. Tell me I’m not allowed to touch you.”

I can’t. I won’t. It’s not true.

“How can I when I’m soaked? I’ve been soaked. And feeling empty. I need—I need?—”

“Tell me what you need.”

At the brush of my hand against his erection, he pulls away. He lifts me by the waist to rest on the counter, slowly takes off the rest of my dress, underwear included, and spreads my knees wider to accommodate himself in between.

Before going further, he looks at me. Just looks at me and swallows roughly.

I—can’t handle it. I tug on his hand until he finally brushes against the warm, wet, insistent part of me, lightly circling the hood of my clit.

“More. Inside,” I beg.

“So impatient,” he purrs, a smile now on his lips. “My Rita wants this, does she?” He circles me again, again, and again—and then his finger slides in, pumping lightly until I clench down. Experimentally, another finger joins in, steel eyes watching my reactions as if all that matters is the tremble in my knees, the kind of stroke that makes my head drop back, and how to keep the whimpering going that comes out of my mouth.

Every swipe, swirl, and flick of his thumb on my clit is thorough and punishing, and I can’t believe I’m already building up to orgasm.

I claw at his shoulders, but Luke has no care. His rhythm is built, and heis the maestro going in and out, kissing my mouth whenever a particularly broken groan comes out as if he owns my noises too. He seems to especially enjoy the low keen I release when he curls his forefinger inside me, dragging against the flesh of my g-spot. Luke seeks to keep it going the way he incessantly repeats the movement.

“Please, don’t stop—I’m so close—I’m close—God?—”