He drags it out. He makes it hurt. I clutch his shirt and lock my jaw to keep from crying out. I moan. He’s going to hurt me!
And then his silken mouth, his graceful tongue.
He moves so fast, his hair tickles my chin. He moves like he’s hungry: harsh, thorough—and yet the whole thing is so gentle, I’m moaning with bliss. He trails down my throat and over my collarbone: nipping and then licking, marking with his teeth and following with his tongue and lips, biting and then soothing, punishing and stroking.
He sucks my tender throat between his teeth, and a moan spills from my lips.
In between my legs, I’m throbbing.
I wrap my hands around the back of his head, clutching him to me as I moan again. I’ve lost my mind... I press my hips against his thighs, gulping back air and exhaling in a low sigh. One of my hands trails down his nape and grips his shoulder as his mouth continues its assault on my throat.
“Kellan...”
He moves away. At first I think I’ve wrecked this, but he doesn’t step back. Instead he tilts his forehead against mine, giving gives me a heavy-lidded smile, and plants a soft kiss on my lips.
When he lifts his mouth off mine, I press my lips against the base of his throat, pausing for a moment because at first, I’m sure that he will pull away.
He doesn’t move.
I can hardly breathe. As I gaze at his smooth, tanned skin, I find his throat is marred by a small, horizontal scar. It’s thin and pale, and looks like someone drew a dash over his jugular with a beige Sharpie. I roll my tongue over it and feel him shudder. Yessss.
His hands wrap around my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, then grasping my skull. I’ve never been a skilled lover, but this is different. My hunger leads me. I see his smooth throat as a canvas and I want to mark it. I kiss him softly at first, then so hard I hope it aches.
I’m rewarded by a hard catch of his breath, followed by a muttered, “fuck.” He clutches my head tighter and presses his erection against my hip. I wait for him to move, to grind against me—in fact, I hold my breath for it—but he doesn’t. He just juts against me, his throat still under my mouth, his chest frozen against mine. And then, after an exquisite second, he grabs my arms from around his neck and pulls them up over my head.
“What a little slut you are,” he growls. Clamping his hand around my wrists, he pushes me toward a row of shelves. With my arms bound and my upper back against one of the Tupperware containers, I’m helpless—and panting so hard I feel almost panicked.
I can feel my face burn as he looks down on me.
“You like this, don’t you?” His fingers tighten around my wrists. His head drops down. He kisses my mouth slow and hard, then bites the corner of my lips. “You like fucking around with me, don’t you, Cleo baby?” He murmurs it against my cheek. “You were waiting for this. You’re already wet for me.” It’s true, of course. I feel him hard against my lower belly, and I grit my teeth.
He takes my chin in his fingers, revealing my face. There’s no point in answering. I know he can see it in my eyes. I can see my lust reflected back at me in his.
His face is so intense, I almost expect him to pull my leggings down and take me as I lean against the shelves.
Instead, his strong fingers release my wrists, and he drops down to his knees. He puts my shawl out of the way and claims my pussy with his wide mouth.
“Ohmygod!”
He closes his jaw just slightly, mouthing at me, and then I feel his voice vibrate. “You smell like sex, Cleo.”
It takes everything I have to keep from rocking into his face. My legs quiver. My voice shakes so hard I can barely speak. “I haven’t had a shower.”
“You don’t need one.”
His mouth shifts against me, and there is his tongue. I know it by its lovely pressure; the feel of it is big and hot and damp. He settles it warmly over me—and then his lips are back, clamping on my throbbing sex as he blows into the fabric. I can feel the hot moisture against my skin.
“You want my mouth on your pussy. You