Page 21 of Delta (Alpha #12)

"Jesus, woman. Fucking perfect." He folds the knife and shoves it into a hip pocket, then cups my tits in his hands.

“Keep calling me perfect, and you're gonna give a girl a complex."

He doesn't respond to that, a soft grumble of male appreciation rattling his chest. "Pants off now, Gorgeous."

I frown at him. "My pants are already off."

He snorts a laugh, toeing my jeans. "These are jeans, or trousers." He hooks a finger in the elastic of my underwear. "These are pants."

"Oh," I breathe.

"Now. Pants…off. Show me that pretty pussy."

He stands back and stares at me, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, his gaze heated.

I slide the underwear down, and his eyes follow my hips as I wriggle to shimmy my panties off, and now I'm nude, and he's fully clothed.

I gesture at him. "Shirt off."

He swaggers toward me. "I'll take it off when I'm ready."

"I gave you what you wanted. Now it's my turn." I reach for the hem of his shirt.

He grabs my wrists and shoves them up over my head—and just like that, I'm reminded of the strength difference between us.

I'm a fit, strong girl. I lift weights, I spar, run, do yoga, surf, and paddleboard.

I'm not some dainty little Pilates princess. But Rush’s strength is on a whole other level.

He pins my wrists to the glass and nips my earlobe again.

"It's your turn when I decide it's your turn, Beautiful. And I've decided I'm feeling a bit…peckish." He moves his lips to my jaw, my chin, my throat. "Leave your hands up there or I'll stop."

"Wouldn't that be tragic?" I quip, going for insouciant.

It backfires immediately.

Rush releases me and steps back, hands in his pockets. "Wouldn’t it just?” He leans into my space, close enough to whisper without touching me. "That orgasm I gave you on the train? That was nothing. I've been told I have a magic tongue."

"I don't believe in magic."

"You ever come so hard you forget your name, Bryn?"

"No." It's a breath, barely audible.

"Put your hands over your head and spread your legs." His command is quiet, insistent, dripping with promise. "Be a good girl for me. Let me show you what real ecstasy feels like."

"I'm not a good girl, Rush."

"No, you're not. I like that about you. But you'll be a good girl for me, won’t you?"

Fuck.

I'm shaking with need. My thighs squeeze together, heat pulsing through me. My nipples are so hard they ache, and my clit is throbbing.

I refuse to give in so easily, however. I just stare him down.

"Stubborn one, aintcha?" He grabs my hands and moves them behind my back, pinioning them in one hand. "Maybe you need a little reminder of what you're missing out on, then."

"Perhaps I do," I whisper.

His fingers walk down my belly, and then I gasp as he presses the pad of his index finger to my clit; he lets out a rough, dark chuckle at my sharp inhale. "Like that, do you?"

"A little."

"A little, she says. As if I can't smell the need dripping out of this sweet, hot, tight, wet, little cunt."

I hate that word. I hate it. It's gross. Yet from him? Maybe it's the accent, I don't know. I just know when he says it—with a crisp enunciation, the 'T' popping—my core spasms.

He traces a finger up my seam. "See?" he shows me his glistening fingertip. "Drippin' for me."

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want his mouth. I need to come. It's an inferno inside me, pressure building in my core like a malfunctioning steam engine

Touch me—touch me. Goddammit, touch me.

The words won't come out; sometimes I hate how stubborn I am.

“Still not convinced, are you?" he grins. "Very well, then. This is fun for me. Maybe I’ll take my time. Tease you for fuckin' hours. You ever been edged till you're ready to kill someone for an orgasm?"

I just stare at him, refusing to answer.

"It's a simple question, Bryn. Have you?

"No," I whisper.

"Is that what you want? Want me to finger your hard little clit till you're right about to come, and then stop? Do that again and again and fuckin' again until you're ready to fuckin' snap?"

"Maybe I do," I snarl, lying through my gritted teeth. "Or maybe I just want you to stop goofing around and fuck me already."

He laughs. "Oh, no, no, no. That won't do at all." He touches his lips to my ear. "I like to play with my food."

I shudder at the tickling of his hot breath, my core clamping, thighs squeezing. "Rush…"

"Wossat, love?"

I can't bring myself to ask him to touch me. Capitulation isn't in my blood.

He swipes a finger against my clit and I twitch, gasping.

He keeps my wrists pinned behind my back, his forehead against mine as he watches his finger slide upward over my seam, pause, and then he scrapes a fingernail over my clit.

A ragged moan escapes me, then, and that's when he plunges his two middle fingers inside me without warning, scooping my essence and smearing it over my clit—my knees almost give out.

He hooks those fingers inside me again, and I'm held up by his touch inside me.

"Fuckin' hell, Bryn. So fuckin' tight, so fuckin' wet. Drippin' for me, you are." He withdraws his fingers and drags his wet middle finger over my lips. "Taste yourself, Gorgeous. Tell me. Do you taste as sweet as you smell?"

I feel my traitorous tongue ghost over my lips, and the flavor of my own juices bursts on my tongue. "Yes."

I've forgotten what it was he wanted me to do that I wouldn't do or say. I don't know. He scrambles my brain.

He slips one finger inside me and swirls it around, pulls it out. Pops it into his mouth. "Mmmm. Sweet as sugar."

Again, that finger dips into me, and again he tastes me as if sampling the finest dessert.

I whimper every time he takes his touch away, the sound ripped out of me against my will.

He does it again, but this time instead of tasting me, he smears my essence over my clit and circles.

Circles. Swipes. Brings me to the edge, until I'm shaking and panting, knees dipping every time he makes contact with my clit.

And then, an instant before I topple over the edge into release, his touch vanishes and he's licking his fingers clean.

I growl in desperation. "Rush!"

"What, love? You need somethin'?"

"Dammit!" I press my thighs together in a vain attempt to get more friction, more pressure. "What do you want, Rush?"

"Hands over your head against the window. Spread your legs apart. Don't make a sound."

Holding his hot gaze, which is now a greenish-gray shot through with streaks of brown, I slowly drag my arms over my head, clasp them together, and press them against the glass.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and dammit all to hell, the praise makes my thighs quake. "Spread your legs for me, now. Let me see all of you."

Gritting my teeth in embarrassment, I wiggle my feet apart inch by inch until they're about shoulder width.

"Wider."

I comply, taking another half step until I’m in a sumo squat stance; Rush stands in my space, gazing down at me, smirking. "Now what?" I ask.

"Now…" he taps his foot against mine, nudging it further, and the other side; my balance is compromised, now—one wrong move and I’ll fall over.

"You stay just like that until I say otherwise.

Don't move. Don't make a sound." He drags his finger against my clit—I gasp involuntarily, and his touch is instantly gone.

"Hush, now, Lovely. The quieter you are, the more you get what you want. "

"I want you ,” I hiss, hating how needy and pathetic I sound.

"Then you'd better not make a peep, ey?"

One finger slips inside me, squelching deep. His other hand steals to my chest, carving up my diaphragm, cupping my breast. He pinches my nipple, hard—I grit my teeth and hiss.

"Good girl," he whispers. "Just like that."

Fuck, this is hot. It shouldn't be. I should hate it. But I want his touch. I want to come—I need to come. I need him. I need more. So, I play his game.

And I find myself liking it.

He dips at the knees, lifting my breast to his mouth and suckling my nipple between his teeth, flattening it between his tongue the roof off his mouth; all the while, he's slowly drilling his middle finger in and out of my pussy, slowly and teasingly fucking me with it.

A whimper crashes against the gate of my clenched teeth as he tongues my nipple and teases my clit—it takes all of my self-control not to use my hands to push him down, to guide his mouth where I want it. Fuck, at this point, I'm close to begging. His finger isn't nearly enough.

I'm breathing hard, my knees dipping every time his finger drives into me, every time his mouth assaults my nipples.

Within a few minutes, I'm on the cusp of orgasm again, shaking all over, panting hard through gritted teeth, hips rocking, pushing, driving into his pumping finger while I arch my back to press my tits against his seeking, licking, nibbling mouth.

"God, you're a greedy one, aren't you?" he whispers. “Need more, do you?"

I don't answer out loud, but I do meet his arrogant, aroused gaze and nod.

"Want to come, Bryn?"

I nod again.

He laughs. "Nah. Not yet. You're not ready yet."

Not ready yet? Bastard. I’m losing my mind over here. I clench hands into fists and press them against the glass—it only occurs to me now that it’s broad daylight and my bare ass is up against the glass for everyone on the sidewalk below to see.

Why does that turn me on even more?

Maybe I am, as he puts it, a slag.

He brings me to the edge again with his fingers plunging inside me and his mouth on my nipples, taking me to the shaking, shuddering edge of climax before abruptly taking away his touch.

This time, I can't keep a scream of infuriated frustration from escaping.

Rush just laughs. "Gettin' closer." He pops his finger into his mouth again, eyes closed as he hums his enjoyment of my taste. "Dunno if I can hold out anymore. Need to taste you for real."

I pant desperately, hips rocking against nothing, a keening whimper seeping out of me.

"You're gonna come all over my face, aren't you?" he asks. "You can answer, Gorgeous."