Page 56 of Rev

“Tell me to stop,” he begs. “Pleasefuck, Myka. Tell me to fuckin’ stop.”

I shake my head. “No,” I breathe. “More.”

“Fuck.”

His hand slides around, moving toward my front. I stop breathing. The movement of his hand pulls my shorts and panties away from my body. He grips them in his fist at my belly and yanks them down, together; I gasp, a shrill breathless sound of shock as my sex is bared. I press my thighs together, but this is not in protest, it’s an attempt to assuage the fiery ache between them. My shorts and panties hit the floor. My gut curls inward as his palm presses low on my belly, on the thin scrim of trimmed hair. His fingers delve against my seam, and I whimper.

Ohhh gosh. Oh my. He’s going to touch me.

I haven’t been touched there in so long by anyone but me.

“Please, Rev,” I whisper.

“Please what, Myka?”

I open my thighs, roll my hips. “More.”

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re crazy.”

“Touch me, Rev.”

Who am I? Who is this woman occupying my body, begging this man I barely know, this violent, nearly savage beast of a man, to touch me?

I don’t know myself.

At all.

But I can’t seem to stop myself.

He buries his face against my neck, in that tender no-man’s-land where neck, throat, and shoulder all meet. Growls wordlessly, his whole body tensed and hard against mine. His hand cups my sex—merely holding. A taut, breathless series of seconds, only his growling breaths and my panted whimpers of need.

And then I feel his finger move, twitch. Middle finger. It presses against my seam, fingertip pointing downward. Curls in, slides up slowly, splitting my nether lips apart. I gasp at the intrusion. My head thunks back against the door, eyes closed, reveling and luxuriating in this wild, alien sensation of his finger touching me in my most intimate place. It’s been so long that I barely remember what it feels like to be touched. To be wanted.

And Rev…

Not only does he make me feel wanted, beautiful, sexy, he takes it a step further. Into something else. Something beyond desire and even need.

As if he’s fighting the very forces of nature, battling a law as immutable as gravity or the passage of time. As if for reasons I can’t fathom, I’m off-limits to him, but his raw need for me is more powerful than the reasons he can’t have me.

It’s utterly intoxicating.

I gasp as his finger delves ever so gradually into me, inside me, into my wetness. Plunges deep. Penetrating me until his knuckles press against the plump taut lips of my sex and his finger is encased by me.

“Fuckin’soaked, Myka,” he whispers, his voice nearly inaudible, so deep and so rough that I feel it more than hear it.

I’m helpless. Pinned, captured. Subject totally to his wants.

For a time I cannot measure, whether it be heartbeats or lifetimes, he slides that one finger inside me, curling and straightening, exploring inside me. Then, he withdraws it, pressing the slick tip of his finger to my aching, pulsating clit.

I let out a choked gasp as lightning explodes inside me, heat abruptly smashing through me, lines and waves of bliss radiating out from my clit, tingling in my arms and legs, in my toes and fingers, in my scalp, in my belly. I feel my body convulse, wanting to curl forward, another hissed rasping gasp scraping through my throat.

“One touch, Myka. Jesus…fuck, one goddamn touch and you’re coming apart.” His voice is so soft, so awed.

He moves that fingertip in slow delicate circles over my clit, and lightning moves with his touch, amplifying, building. My convulsions ratchet into spasmodic screams, muffled by his mouth. He kisses me as the universe explodes inside me, each touch, each circling swipe pushing me deeper into white-hot concussive ecstasy.

“Talk to me, Myka,” he orders.

“More.” My mouth forms the words, my voice box creates the sound, but the command over the content comes from my soul, rather than my brain.