Page 21 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

His eyes flash with satisfaction. I never cuss, but with this version of Ansel? He’s going to get all my words. “Is this what it takes, angel?” he asks, still so close, his breath hot against my center. “Because I have not even begun to worship you.”

I suck in air, wordless in the face of this man. I’m frozen, unable to even move as I drink him in.

He gives a feral grin as his thumbs spread me wide. “Get ready, Elodie. Eyes on me.”

I swallow.

He descends.

I moan at the first touch of his tongue.

Hot and wet, he moves it lazily around me, up and down, circling my clit, his hands keeping my legs apart for his attentions.

Back and forth he moves, learning the most secret parts of me, listening to my pants and groans, repeating a movement when I hitch a breath.

“Is this good?” he asks, his dark eyes finding mine in the dim light.

“Yes, fuck yes,” I breathe. It takes everything I have to keep looking at him. It feels too intimate, too soul baring. Terrifying. But then he latches onto my clit and sucks, and I see stars.

He brings me to the edge quickly. My legs start to quiver, and without a word, he puts my calves on his shoulders.

The position locks his face between my thighs, the scruff of his beard scratching deliciously against my sensitive skin.

He eases up just enough for me to catch my breath, and as I let out an exhale, he chuckles. “Still good?”

I mumble a response, my head thrown back.

“Eyes, Elodie. Give me those gorgeous eyes. I want to see your face as I taste your orgasm.”

Holy mother of God . I pull my head up and look down again in time to watch him swirl his tongue around my clit. “Harder,” I gasp.

“Not yet.”

“I’m so close,” I whine, my hips bucking as I chase the pleasure that’s just out of reach.

“Beg.”

I have no idea where this dominance is coming from, and I don’t care. “Please, Ansel. Please.”

He pulls his mouth away and blows on me, making me choke out a near cry. “Not good enough. Beg for me, Elodie.”

“Please put your mouth on me. Lick me, let me come, please , Ansel.” On and on I plead, a chant of words as my hips swivel of their own accord.

“Good girl,” he praises.

I whimper in return.

“Keep watching.” He gives me what I want, driving me closer and closer to climax as his eyes stay on mine.

Pleasure swirls and builds, my thighs shaking with effort, and finally— finally —I’m almost there.

He bears down, working me like he’s done it for decades, and just as I’m tipping over the edge, he pushes two thick fingers into me.

I shatter, the orgasm ripping through me as I shout his name, my muscles pulsing around his fingers as he takes me through the deepest, most intense orgasm of my life. He doesn’t let up, drawing the pleasure out of me until I’m nearly sobbing, out of my mind with what he’s done to me.

“Ansel.” His name is a prayer, a plea as I finally come down. My entire body tingles with pleasure.

As I watch, he pulls his fingers out of me and puts them into his mouth, sucking and licking them clean. He continues to hold my gaze, his own still dark and possessive. “You taste so good, Elodie. Perfect.”

“Kiss me,” I whisper. It’s all I can think to say.

He shifts my legs off his shoulders, and I sit up. Something vulnerable flashes in his eyes, so quickly that I almost don’t see it.

I pull his mouth to mine as he wraps his arms around me, pulling me flush against him so my wet center presses against his hard chest. The kiss is deep, searching. I thread my hands through his hair, and he moans. I do it again, and his torso surges up at the motion.

Realization hits. He’s starved for touch—for this kind of touch.

The kind that wants only to deliver pleasure without anything in return.

He’s beaten and tackled on the pitch, and given hugs and love at home, sure, but who gives him this?

I increase the pressure, using my nails, and he responds with a groan.

“Your turn. Tell me what you want,” I whisper against his lips.

He doesn’t answer.

I pull away, our positions making it so that I’m looking down into his eyes. They’re back to soft and gentle, the dominant man of minutes before tucked safely away in place of a man who’s so accustomed to giving that I’m not sure he can even articulate his wants. Not when they’re about him.

Cradling his face in my palms and stroking his beard with my thumbs, I press a light kiss against his forehead, then each eyelid, before kissing him again. “Tell me,” I urge.

A shadow passes over his face, and he gives the subtlest shake of his head. “This is about you.”

“No,” I push back. “You matter, Ansel. What you want matters.”

His expression shutters, but it’s still so soft and sweet that I almost don’t see it. “Let’s get you into something warm, okay?” He presses a quick kiss to my lips before rising and crossing to the dresser.

Something in my heart cracks wide open as he withdraws, turning to grab a pair of sweatpants and a tee from the drawers. His movements are practiced, efficient. It’s only after he’s handed them over that he turns to his own needs, pulling boxer briefs from a drawer and pulling them on.

“What can I get you? Water? I think I have a spare toothbrush?—”

“I don’t need a thing, Ansel,” I say softly, my chest aching for him.

I dress and let him guide me into bed and under the covers.

He climbs in with me, and before he can spoon me, I turn and wrap myself around him, maneuvering him into the little spoon position.

He gives a surprised laugh but doesn’t stop me.

I press my nose to his back, breathing him in and kissing the strong muscles as I flatten my hand against his chest.

His hand comes up to cover mine, threading our fingers together before raising them and kissing my palm. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

It’s enough. For tonight, it’s enough.