Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,68
shirt he’s wearing.
His body flexes under me, pushing my fingers back. I quiver at how solid he feels. His eyes drop from my face to my chest to my legs.
“Look at you. Fuck. The moment you walked into the restaurant, I wanted to do so much—”
My tongue meets the base of his neck, and his voice drops. I give him another soft nip and he lets out a deep, hot breath.
“You need to wear this every day. Every single goddamn day.”
I giggle and look up at him. His eyes remain clouded over, signaling he’s in a pleasure-filled state and it’s all my doing. What a strangely empowering feeling. This tough, imposing man has been rendered helpless by little ol’ me. With his size and strength, he could normally push me up or hold me down with ease, but not now. Not in this hot and blissful moment. If I could bottle this smug, satisfying rush inside of me, I could sell it in department stores. I’d call it Domination and charge fifty dollars a bottle. People would kill to feel this desired and in control. I’d make out like a bandit.
Burying my face in his chest, I take in the musky, spicy scent of his skin. I’m gently biting him over his clothes when he leans up and pushes me against the steering wheel. He locks eyes with me and smirks. The rush it gives me makes my legs buckle. I yelp. Good thing I’m already sitting. My back is arched at an unnatural angle, but it somehow makes this moment hotter. He’s got me by the waist; I’ve got him by the shoulders.
He doesn’t blink once while he presses his forehead against mine. “Emmie,” he says, like he’s just now remembering my name.
He kisses me before I can say anything in response. It’s seconds before he lets me up for air.
“Yeah?” I finally gasp.
His head dips down to my neck, and I’m shaking as he licks and nibbles. He stays on the left side of my neck at first, then lightly blows on my clavicle before starting at the bottom of my right side. The licking and nibbling commence. I’m moaning and squealing like a wounded animal. I can barely handle this. He laughs against my neck. The vibrations reverberate throughout my chest and head, intensifying the pleasure.
“Tate, please,” I whisper. I open my eyes for a moment and my vision is blurry. I don’t know how much more I can take.
Instead of easing up, he dips his head lower. He softly bites my left breast outside of my shirt.
“Fuck,” I cry. That bite is the single hottest thing that’s ever happened to this part of my body. What inventive use of his mouth. Clever boy.
With slow-moving yet sure fingers, he pulls down the front of my tank top. Both cups of my black bra spill over, and his index finger traces the top of my breasts in a steady, deliberate line. Goose bumps rise up on every inch of my exposed skin, even in the heat of this stuffy car.
“What are you . . .”
My breathy, incomplete question is answered with his tongue on my nipple. By the way I nearly choke on my breath, I’m clearly shocked. Tate Rasmussen is a freaking master with his tongue. Slow, wet, warm circles soon turn into rapid, desperate ones. Then he dials back the speed and slides to the other one. Again I nearly choke on air. My eyes cross every time I try to focus my vision on the mass of snowy waves planted right in front of my face, so instead I shut them.
A warm ache spreads from my abdomen up my chest, to my legs, my arms, my fingertips. I’m writhing, whimpering. I say his name over and over. Not once does he stop. How Tate can deliver this much pleasure to my body with just his tongue on my breasts is a mystery. It makes me ache for more. A shiver pulses through me, ending at my lower abdomen. The ache intensifies, and suddenly, I want his tongue anywhere he wishes to put it.
“Yes,” I moan. “More.”
I take it back. This is the single hottest thing that’s ever happened to this part of my body.
My head hangs over the top of the steering wheel, my pulse hammering at the bottom of my throat. When I open my eyes again, I notice there’s condensation coating the windows. I wonder if anyone can hear us with the windows