me remember?” I ask.
He nods without hesitation. “Yes. And they’re yours. Please. Go through them.”
I nod and shift back, getting comfortable against the chair, and he smiles, his eyes soft. “I remember when I bought that chair for you. It was right after we moved here, and we had been out, downtown. You saw it at this tiny place that sold art and you fixated. Brought it up every few days for weeks. So I went down and picked it up one night after I finished a pretty big piece on a client. Surprised you with it. It was like watching a kid on Christmas morning. I fell in love with you a little more that day.” He laughs, a little, at himself. “I fell in love with you a little more every day, Peyton.”
I make a tiny noise, and his gaze snaps to me.
Later, when I think about it, I’ll be sure he moved first. But the truth is we moved at the same time. I reach for him at the same time he wraps a hand around my neck, lifting me up.
His lips meet mine, and the world explodes. Everything is about him, about the rough urgency of his lips against mine, and his hands that shift me, just the right angle to my head. His tongue licks over the seam of my lips and I gasp, and he’s everywhere, his tongue tangling with mine.
He’s not just kissing me. He’s devouring and conquering, claiming me. And I make a tiny little noise, almost a mewl, and let him.
His body comes down, knees on either side of me, and I want more of his weight, more of that maddening lazy tongue, more of his clever fingers, brushing over my skin, everywhere and nowhere.
“More,” I gasp, and he grins against my lips.
“More what, perfect girl?” he murmurs. “Tell me what you want.”
Tell him what I want? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I shake my head and his lips skate down my jaw, over my throat in wet, nipping kisses that have me aching. He pushes my shirt, a blue button-down over a white, lace-trimmed cami, aside, and his fingers are on my breasts, circling and circling, endless torture. “Do you want my mouth here?” he murmurs, and I flush.
Why can’t he just fuck me? Why must he hear it? His fingers ghost over my nipple, pinch sharply, and I gasp, “Yes.”
Rike makes a low growl and yanks my cami down, shoving aside the pale pink bra cup and I moan as the wet heat of his mouth closes over me, pulling hard on my nipple. His teeth rake over it and I almost come off the damn chaise. His hands are moving, one cupping my breast through the clothes, the other skating lower, sliding under the hem of my shirt to play over my torso. His tongue circles my nipple, slow and lazy, and I jerk on his hair, pulling him up and kissing him. He groans, and I can almost feel him fighting to pull away. His gaze is clouded and hungry when he demands, “What do you want, Peyton? Do you want my fingers”—he brushes against me over my jeans with his fingers and I shiver—“or do you want my tongue?” I shudder, my head falling back. A low chuckle rolls over me. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want. Tell me how bad you want to come riding my lips.”
I shake my head and he unzips my jeans, and slips a hand inside. I scream as his fingers slip through me, playing over me, and his thumb rubs over my clit.
“Say it, Peyton,” he demands hoarsely. “Say what you want.”
“You,” I whimper.
He curses. “Not enough. Tell me you want me to tongue-fuck you. That you want to taste yourself on my lips when I’m inside you. Tell me.”
His fingers move again and I growl, “Fucking do it or don’t. Get me off or don’t but don’t fucking toy with me. Yes, goddammit, I want you to eat me out until I come.”
He grins, and moves, faster than I can really process. One second he’s hovering above me, and the next he’s between my thighs, my jeans hanging around my ankles as he lowers his head and then nothing matters. There is only the glide of his tongue against me, the fluttering pressure as he tongues my clit, and the slow thrust of his fingers. He licks at me, the tip of his