Even now, I feel myself growing wetter just at the thought.
“Yes.”
The obedient word slips out and Saxon smiles. It’s slow and not particularly kind but it’s laced with expectation and hunger, and if he were to demand that I get down on my knees, right now, I’d do it.
Except he doesn’t ask me to beg and he doesn’t ask me to get down on my knees. He only watches, trailing his heated gaze from my damp hair to my equally damp clothes, and then he growls a single word that sends a chill dancing down my spine.
“Strip.”
My heart thuds rapidly. “Here?”
“Here.”
“What about you? Turnaround is fair play.”
Something in his gaze shuts down, some of his always present coolness resettling into his expression. “Strip, Isla.”
I want to press for more but when he fingers the hem of my shirt, giving it a short tug that says more than a thousand words could, I concede. I strip. First my shirt, which I toss to the side. Then my thin bra, which I send in the same direction.
Warmth tears through me when I catch Saxon’s wide shoulders heave with a sharp inhalation, his cheeks crested red with lust. I’d once wondered what it would take to set a man like Saxon Priest on fire and now, I know.
Me.
All it takes is me.
Boldly, I cup my breasts, thumbing my stiff nipples. “What next?” I ask softly, as though I’m playing his game instead of orchestrating it.
Jaw clenched tight, his lips barely part when he makes his next demand. “Your finger—lick it.”
Like a good girl, I put my finger in my mouth and swirl my tongue around the tip, enjoying all too much how Saxon’s gaze flares. Oh, Mr. Priest, how easily the tides turn. With a pop, I give my finger a little twirl in the air to signal next-order-please.
Brows knitting together, the corner of his mouth hitches with competitive spirit. “Tell me, is that how you suck cock?”
I squeeze my legs together. “Never had any complaints before.”
It’s the wrong thing to say—I recognize the mistake immediately.
That half-smile on his face grows, wicked and predatory in its very essence. Swiftly, he clasps my still-wet finger and tugs my hand down to the button of his trousers. “Get on your knees.”
“Is this the moment where I beg for forgiveness for acting like a spoiled brat?” I ask, blatantly teasing him. “Should I cry? Shed a tear or two for dramatic effect?”
He hooks a hand around the nape of my neck, dragging me close. “No, this is the part where you admit that you’re scared.”
“And if I’m not?”
A small pause that I can’t decipher. And then, “You will be.”
Maybe it’s the conviction in his husky voice that does it or perhaps it’s the events of the day finally catching up with me, but I shiver—and Saxon notices. His expression shifts, stiffening, before he nods, as though coming to some decision. “On your knees, Isla.”
Slowly, I lower to the ground.
My trousers protect my skin from the dust and grime, but there’s no protecting the rest of me from what’s about to happen. We’re crossing a line—a line that can’t be redrawn. We aren’t friends. We aren’t really lovers, either. We’re two lonely people who faced death today and won.
Liar. That’s not all this is, and you know it.
With nervous fingers, I ignore the fluttering in my belly that tells me we’re feeding the beast instead of cutting off its head, the way we ought, and flick the button through the hole. The zipper sliding along metal teeth sings in my ears as I part his trousers. His briefs are black, much like his soul.
I drag my finger down his veiled length, secretly loving the way his cock twitches under my touch. “Tell me how you like it,” I say, my gaze locked on the thick crown already thrusting out from the top of his pants.
He curses beneath his breath, his palms settling on the back of my head.
Hooking my fingers over the elastic waistband, I tug the fabric down—and just barely hold in a gasp. He’s thicker than I expected—longer, too. The plump head already beads with pre-come and I have it on good authority that he wasn’t exaggerating when he said I’d scream or choke—doing both, simultaneously, would mean instant death.
“Open your mouth.”
I do him one better. Wrapping a hand around his base, I glide my tongue from root to tip, along the ridged vein that begs for attention. Saxon’s fingers tighten in my hair, tugging on the strands as though he’s torn between yanking me away completely and pressing me deeper.
Taking the choice for my own, I wrap my mouth around his crown, lapping the pearl of moisture away, and swallow him as deep as I can go.
“Fuck.” He releases a throaty groan that sounds wrenched from his soul. “Fuck.”
I lift my gaze to find that his is already locked on my face. Shock mingled with possession flits through his features, twisting his mouth in a snarl. Holding his stare, I draw him deeper, bobbing my head. I moan around his length because it seems like it’s something he might like, and yes, he absolutely does.
His hips buck forward.
His fingers shove me down, making me take even more.
I choke on his length, eyes watering, eagerness rising as I shift on my knees.
It’s a power move on his part. But of the two of us, I’m the one wielding the torch. I love it. Love the way he silently begs for me, with his thrusting hips and deep, guttural groans. Love the way his fingers flex in my hair, as though he’s desperate to maintain control but can’t help letting go to the sensation of me working him over.
Saxon may be the king of his emotions everywhere else in his life, but in this moment, with my lips moving down his length, then back up, over and over again, he’s lost to the chaos. He’s lost in me.
Giving him one last twist at his base, I pull back, canting my head for a picture of total innocence. “Tell me, Saxon . . . are you feeling scared?”
His lips firm, a promise of retribution manifesting when he fists my hair and growls, “Face the wall.”
I raise my brows, egging him on. “Shall I drop trou? Or would you prefer to do the honors?”
A dark cloud washes over him. “If you were anyone else—”
“But I’m not.” I stand, already shoving the denim and my knickers to my thighs, then farther down to my knees and ankles, before kicking them away. I keep my boots on. “I’m me and you’re you.”
“And that means what?” he bites out. “Good and evil?”
“No, fire and ice.” I smooth a hand over my belly, delighting in the way he tracks the pass of my fingers like a predator does with its prey. His damp shirt clings to his torso, doing a piss-poor job of hiding the twitch of his pectoral muscles when I inch my fingers down my body, tantalizing him with the promise of what lies between my legs. “I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames.”
Leaning forward, I take a tentative step toward him. Hand to his strong chest, my fingers graze the corded muscles of his shoulder.
Do it, Isla, take the risk.
He watches me with hooded, wary eyes. Danger lurks in those green-yellow depths, but I take the plunge anyway, testing him with a brush of my thumb over his mouth.
His hand claps around my wrist, yanking me away. “Don’t.”