Page 29 of Only the Wicked

His finger softly traces my lips.

“Fuck, you make me want you.”

His lips find my neck, my throat, my breast bone, and finally, my peaked, needy nipple. His tongue swirls and my back arches.

His is a slow seduction, one that makes it clear my ploy worked against me, because he’s made this entire episode all about me. Perhaps of the two of us, he’s the red sparrow, the seducer, the one using physical prowess to break down walls and infiltrate crevices.

His lips trail lower, to my belly button, and with his hooded eyes, he watches. The press of the vibrator flat against my seam has me rolling my eyes up to the ceiling. The scrap of lace does nothing to blot the cool metal or the tremors.

“Do you like that?”

I force myself to swallow, to nod.

His teeth graze my thigh, and he nips.

“I think you do,” he says, altering the position, placing the blunt end right over my center. My knees rise and my thighs squeeze.

“On your side.”

I lift my head, uncertain.

He slides his body beside mine.

“Roll against me, gorgeous. Back to me.”

I do as he says, and his body wraps around mine, spooning me.

My ass presses to his groin, the motion smooth until he ratchets up the vibrations, playing with the speeds. My thighs clamp together, but with his placement of the vibrator and the heat of his body on my back and over my mound, it’s not long before my body trembles with an orgasm, arching into him.

His hot breath on my shoulder, along my neck, in my ear relaxes me into his body.

“Fuck, that was hot.”

I agree, but I’m too spent to utter a word, and maybe, just maybe, too embarrassed.

“Only thing better…” His words trail.

He releases the vibrator, which he turned off at some point and cups my breast, thumbing over my nipple in an intimate gesture.

“Is if you had been inside me,” I say, finishing his sentence, rolling onto my back and looking up at him.

This close, under the room’s golden light, I spot the variations in his irises. A subtle striation of earthy shades, comforting, grounding, and intense. I suspect always intense.

My fingers roam the coarse skin along his jaw, down his throat, and across his firm chest, and along the divots of his abdomen.

He lifts my fingers and presses his lips to the backside, then to my knuckles, and pushes up off the bed.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, puzzled. “Don’t you want?—”

“Tonight is about you.” He taps my nose. “Only you, gorgeous.”

The door closes to the bathroom and I sit up. Shell-shocked.

A bolt of thunder draws my attention to the balcony. The night sky lights up, eerily illuminating a path across the roofline through the courtyard and silhouetting the flowers swaying in the wind.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

Streaks of rain ping against the glass in a torrent.