Page 162 of The Wicked

“And I want you to leave.”

“Do you?” she asked, her fingers tightening their hold on my hair; not too much, just enough to pull me down so that we breathed the same air. “Do you really, Elio?”

“Ye—yes.”

Her eyes narrowed in amusement. “You don’t sound so sure.”

A strained noise rumbled from my chest, my control on the verge of slipping. “Why are you doing this?”

Her hold softened on my hair, her other hand trailing up my arm with her index finger. “Because, Elio, I want nothing more than to see you lose yourself in pleasure.”

“Zahra—”

“I want to please you.” She leaned up, bringing her lips to the underside of my ear. I first felt the warm wetness of her tongue before her lips closed around my skin, sucking on a kiss that sent shock waves down to my hard length, still locked inside the strain of my briefs.

I clenched my jaw hard.

“You’re so tense,” she whispered.

Her hand, which had been trailing up my arm, went back down as it disappeared between us. She rubbed against the bulge lining my pants before bringing her gaze to mine. “Let me help you.” Her fingers moved up to my belt in an attempt to undo it.

I held the left side of her hip, a move I made to push her away from my body, but I found myself pulling her closer.

“No,” I rasped.

“Give in, Elio.”

“No.”

I let her undo my belt buckle, her eyes still on me as she said, “You’re so hard; let me fix it.”

“You fucking caused it.”

“I merely touched you; you got hard because your body clearly needs the relief.” She unzipped me, and I groaned closed-mouthed when she palmed me, her sinful eyes peering up at me. “A relief only I can give.”

She carefully rubbed me, and my forehead settled against hers, my breathing feverish. “You undo me,Zahra.”

With hooded eyes and wet lips, she swallowed. “I like that.”

“Anybody could walk in,” I said.

“Even better. Imagine the mayor walking in and getting a show of me sucking your cock?”

That should have turned me off, but I grew rock solid against her touch.

Her eyes widened. “Oh shit, you like that, don’t you? The thought of getting caught?” She grinned. “You big whore.”

“You little slut.”

She chuckled softly, the sound bouncing inside my chest. “Now, now, slut-shaming is bad.”

“So it’s okay when you do it?”

“Are you admitting you’re a whore?”

“Zahra,” I warned, and my breathing mirrored the pace at which my heart worked. “We shouldn’t—”

“Come on, don’t you love the thrill?”