Page 36

ASK AND RECEIVE

Sabrina

Look, I’ve only fantasized about this happening ten million times. But in all my fantasies, I somehow pictured variations on the same scenario—how I thought Tyler would pin me down, like he did the other week.

A rough, hard kiss.

A scrape of stubble.

A squeeze of my ass.

But instead, he scoops me up into his arms and carries me back into my own apartment. I never pictured this, but it makes me feel giddy, makes me glow.

The symbolism of carrying me across the threshold is not lost on me.

I don’t want to read anything into it, even though it feels like a do-over of my failed wedding night—both the failed wedding and my failed proposition to him.

But when he kicks the door closed without even looking at it? With just a decisive thump of his foot? That feels fresh and new. And fucking hot.

Tyler doesn’t take me to the bedroom. He strides all the way across the living room, then sinks down on the couch, settling me on his lap, adjusting my legs so I’m straddling his ambitious erection as I face him.

I’m shimmering, vibrating with the need to touch him, the need to be touched. But I’m also waiting for him to go next. To spread me out on the couch.

To devour my mouth.

To kiss me everywhere and take me apart.

To do anything. To do everything.

Once again though, he surprises me when he lifts his hand—slowly, like a tease—and cups my cheek, stroking softly. “Tell me what you want, Sabrina. And I’ll give it to you.”

Like it’s that simple—ask and receive.

It’s a wild thought, and a wildly arousing one too. I melt a little more as I sink deeper onto the hard ridge of his erection, growing more turned on as I feel his length against me.

But I can’t fully consider what I want, not when he dips his face to my jawline, kissing me there—an unhurried tease of his lips across my skin—as he whispers, “Whatever you want. Whatever you need.”

My head swims with too many ideas. “I don’t know where to start.”

He chuckles as his mouth meets mine once more, then leaves a trail of kisses across my jawline before he stops, holds my face in his big hands, and says, “Remember—you are the deal. And it’s a big deal.

” It’s a callback to the Night of 1001 Confessions, when he told me my pleasure was the deal.

The point of it all—of sex. This feels like a promise renewed that he’d make it happen.

I nod urgently and he keeps going. “But I don’t want to assume you want the same things you asked for in June.

I need you…to tell me how you picture me making you come when you’re alone at night. ”

I gasp from the boldness of the statement. The sheer accurateness of it too. “How do you know I do that?”

“Educated guess,” he muses, then meets my gaze again. “Plus, you did tell me that night. Your exact words were— My solo time? I’ve enjoyed that. And I’ve spent a lot of it picturing all the things I want. So many things. ”

Holy shit. He’s quoting me back to me. I shiver.

He drops a scorching kiss to my mouth, claiming my lips with a possessiveness that sends pleasure rocketing through my whole body, straight to my core.

But he wrenches back, asking again, “So, what’ll it be?”

That’s the million-dollar question.

What do I want from this man now that this is happening?

Images flash through my mind. Desires. Wishes. Positions. Role-play. Games. I’m not sure where to start, but since we’re being honest, I start with that.

“I don’t know. I just want it all,” I admit, feeling too ravenous to know where to start at the Tyler sex buffet.

He dips his face to mine once more, tugging on my lower lip with his teeth, then letting go. “Want me to find out what you want?”

“Yes,” I say, trembling, gasping.

After sliding a thumb down my jawline to the corner of my mouth, he presses, parting my lips for him. And I gasp.

My breath stutters. But he doesn’t rush. He just watches my lips fall open around his thumb. Like he’s testing me. Like he wants to see if I’ll beg.

I don’t.

Not yet.

I might not have much experience, but I’m good at listening to my body. Knowing what it needs and wants. Right now, my body says it wants to be wound higher. I want him to push me, to make everything feel excruciatingly good.

“Tell me more,” he urges, coaxing my mouth open, pushing his thumb inside. “Like, does this feel good?”

I had no idea this would be such a turn-on. I wriggle against him, then nod. “Yes,” I say around his thumb. He slides it farther inside my mouth, slow and seductive, a simulation of how he wants to fuck me.

A promise of later.

Controlling. Purposeful. A man who knows how to use all his equipment.

He lets his thumb fall from my mouth and runs it down my throat, over my chest, before sliding that hand up and inside my shirt, against my skin, toward my tits. Then he squeezes—hard. “This? Does this feel good?”

I shudder, my mind flashing bright neon. “Yes,” I say, arching my back.

Tyler rumbles out a raspy, “Good.”

Threading his fingers into my hair, he tugs my head back, exposing my neck. More kisses, more touches, then more words as he says, “Tell me something.”

“Anything.” A flush races up my throat, impossibly warm.

“Do you picture coming on my face?”

The sound I make is animalistic. Like a cat in heat.

His smirk is satisfied. Too confident. As if he already knows what I do alone in the dark. And maybe that should embarrass me, but it doesn’t. It makes me reckless.

“You think I picture it?” I challenge, curling my fingers into his shoulders. I haven’t technically said yes. I’ve just groaned. “Or you just want me to say it?”

He leans his face closer to mine. “You don’t have to say it.”

I swallow past the heat surging everywhere in me. “Why?”

“Because I know it. I know you do because of the way you look at me,” he says, with a confidence that electrifies my body, my soul.

“The way you’ve looked at me since that day here on your yoga mat when I was this close to burying my face between your pretty thighs.

This close to tasting your sweetness. This close to learning if you’re as wet and hot and fucking delicious as I imagine you are right now. ”

I’m wetter. Hotter. Greedier.

Electricity crackles in me as I grind right back against his cock. He’s right. I don’t have to say I picture that. Because he clearly knows it. But still, I ask, “Can you feel me right now? How much I want it?”

I’m only wearing leggings. He’s wearing his suit pants still. And I’m soaked. Can he tell? I need to know.

His answer is a nod and a growl. “You bet I fucking can.” His hazel eyes are midnight as his gaze rolls over me like a heat wave. “And you need to know something, Sabrina.”

“Yes?” I ask, desperate for whatever he has to tell me, whatever he plans to do.

He levels me with a dark, feral stare, as if he’s making sure I’m focusing on him. “I picture you coming on my face,” he grits out. “All the fucking time.”

My belly coils, low and tight. A pulse beats between my legs.

“Yeah?” The question is breathy. But it’s hardly a question. It’s more like the most delicious realization I’ve ever experienced in my entire life.

With a bitten off moan, he grips my hips, moving me against his hard-on, setting the pace as he makes me dry hump him. Though makes me barely covers it—I am ready and here for the dry fucking. The full fucking. Any fucking from Tyler.

“I get off to it every night,” he says, like it’s been driving him mad to be this worked up, this aroused. I love the way he’s been so frustrated by his desire. Same here. “I fucked my fist last week, picturing how you’d taste coming all over my face.”

I’m officially boneless from the admission. “That was the night I?—”

“The night you stopped outside my door,” he says with a smug, satisfied smirk.

“You knew I was there?”

A cocky grin curves his lips, like his pressure’s been loosened, the frustration abated from all these bare admissions. “I heard something in the hallway. I’m guessing it was you. And I bet you were tempted to come in,” he says, then gives a lazy thrust of his hips.

“I was,” I say, rocking back against him, seeking out as much of his arousal as I can get.

He strokes my face, and I’m painfully aware he still hasn’t stripped off my clothes, still hasn’t told me what he’ll do to me.

“But you wanted to watch me,” he continues. “You wanted to see how fucking wound up I was.”

A shudder rolls through me as he thrusts again, thick and hard. But I don’t give in yet to the questions or the pleasure. “Did I want that?” I ask, shameless, because I’m a fast learner. I can play this game.

He curls his hand around the back of my skull.

“You would’ve stayed,” he rasps out. “You would’ve watched.

You would’ve pushed that door open a little more, just to see my cock in my hand.

Maybe even stepped into my room, leaned against the door, and thrust your hand inside your panties while you watched me come so fucking hard. To you. ”

I barely even know what’s happening to my body.

Pleasure is everywhere. It’s racing through every single nerve ending.

I’m on the verge of coming. I’ve been so worked up since the second he touched me, since before he even carried me inside, that every little movement winds me tighter. Every word makes me hotter.

I can’t form words. I just moan.

With a low, pleased noise, he thrusts up again.

Again.

Then again.

A long, slow stroke.

I cry out, bracing for the onslaught of pleasure he’s delivering to my body.

“And you knew what got me off,” he says, a challenge. Like he’s daring me to admit everything from that night. How all the clues added up.

“I had a feeling,” I murmur.

His grip tightens on my hips, rough and demanding. “Tell me, Sabrina. Tell me what did it for me. Tell me what made me come harder than I ever have before.”

“You watched my video,” I blurt out and I’m so close. So fucking close. All I want is for him to touch me.