29
Isla
The first touch of his tongue to my clit is heaven-sent.
Knees clutched within my hands, there’s no stopping the cry that rips from my throat. The feel of him, the strength with which he pins me, holding me in place, is as much a turn-on as the sight of him between my legs.
Midnight hair in disarray. Green eyes burning bright, determined and narrowed. That surprising, unexpected tattoo of his fluttering with each hard contraction of his muscles. Mouth wet and glistening as he swirls his tongue and brings me to what must be Dante’s undiscovered tenth circle of hell.
Nothing has ever felt so good.
Nothing should ever feel as good as this.
I breathe out his name. Sink my nails into my shins because it’s either that or claw the sofa cushions to shreds as I writhe under his persuasive mouth.
Uphold your end of the bargain.
His husky demand pervades my consciousness and I lick my lips, desperate for words to give him when all I seem capable of is begging for more. His thick stubble scrapes the inside of my thighs and his tongue causes chaos with each and every flick. And then he ups the ante by sliding a finger inside me.
No, two fingers.
They stretch me, circling in time to the rhythm of his tongue lapping the tiny bud of need at the hood of my sex.
I cede all control. Release my knees and crank my body up on the sofa so I can sink my fingers into his hair and scrape my nails down the back of his skull. He wraps a big hand around my thigh, splitting me wider. From this angle, there’s nothing but the top of his head and the muscles playing in his back as he kneels on the carpet, his face still buried between my legs.
He’s winding me up like a mechanical toy. Torturing me with every drive of his tongue and every sure thrust of his fingers. Never have I felt this way. Never have I felt so wanted.
“It’s too good,” I moan, swaying my hips forward to chase the pleasure. “Saxon, please—”
Another finger. It’s a tight fit, almost too tight, but then he eases the pressure by withdrawing, then slipping his tongue against my entrance. Crude. Vulgar. Clutching his head, I feel my entire body vibrate around him.
I need him to know what he does to me. I need him to know that there is no other man who has ever made me feel this way, like I’m coming out of my skin.
“Touch yourself.”
The words come from me, dirty and desperately hoarse.
He pauses. Lifts his head. “You want to watch.”
It’s not a question, and I wouldn’t do him the disservice of lying anyway. There are too many already—or, at least, one really, really big one—and isn’t this what I asked for? The truth? His and mine?
I dip my chin. Then, “I want to watch.”
Nostrils flaring with lust, Saxon grasps my legs and plants my feet down on the carpet. He shucks off his joggers as he stands, kicking the material away. Yes. Yes. My gaze is rooted on his hard-on when I hear him mutter, “Then I’ll give you a show that you won’t soon forget.”
One second I’m sucking in air and the next Saxon’s hand is cupping the back of my neck, his other choking the base of his erection.
He stands so close that the tip grazes my mouth.
My eyes go wide, darting up to his. Feral. Demanding. That pale gaze sears me alive. And, as though he’s demanding that I repay the favor, I plant my foot on the sofa. Place my fingers between my legs to find myself throbbing and achy, just as Saxon’s tight grip slides up his length and twists the plump crown.
As his hips pulse forward, I lick the head.
Because it’s there.
No, because it’s Saxon.
My heart races in my chest and my fingers delve between my folds to sink in deep. I thrust them in time with the way he fists his cock with angry, aggressive strokes that leave me panting. His abdominal muscles tighten, and a groan wrenches from his throat as I watch come leak from his slit. I want to lick it away. Before I’m given the chance, he runs his palm over the head, smearing it, and then dragging his fist down to the root.
It’s lewd.
Brutal.
And the stuff my dreams are made of.
“I can hear you,” he grits out, his thumb sweeping up to my jaw. “How wet you are around your fingers.”
I curl them, my head falling back into his hand to let him cradle the weight. Then I turn, slightly, and bite the tip of his thumb, never taking my eyes off the show before me. I want him to come across my chest—or in my mouth. I’ve never swallowed before, but I would for him. Gladly. Eagerly. “Saxon. Saxon, I want you to—”
His guttural voice breaks me off: “Would you be that wet around me?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t need further encouragement.
His hands fit under my armpits to lift me up, but as I feel him turning me around, I stay him with a palm to his chest. Over the feathered scars that speak to so much horror. I meet his hot gaze. “Don’t hide from me. I want to see you.”
“Christ.”
But he doesn’t say no.
Hauling me off the sofa, he links his hands under my thighs and props me up on the hard back. My legs wrap around his waist, hands landing on his shoulders. I graze my thumb over the water-colored edge of his tattoo.
Brows drawn together, he mutters, “You’ll regret this.”
I won’t regret him—ever. Me and Saxon, we were never meant to be, but that doesn’t stop me from soaking him up and breathing him in.
“Take me,” I whisper, reaching between us to line up his cock with my core. “And I’ll let you know what I regret or not.”
Jaw cinched tight, he searches my eyes, as if looking for any lingering doubt. Then finds the crease of my hips to hold me steady—and drives himself home. I cry out, my head falling back. I feel him move, his hips pistoning sharply, his mouth landing on the underside of my jawline. His grip never loosens. Faster. Harder. He thrusts into me like he has a point to prove—or maybe like he’s determined to make me regret nothing at all.
Either way, my skin burns and my lungs squeeze and I glance down to watch his thick length fuck me, again and again. No condom. I should panic at the realization, but I’m too far gone to care.
I cling to Saxon’s broad frame. Accept his hard, punishing thrusts like they’re my due. Each one belongs to me, each one catapults me higher, until I’m quivering and moaning and cupping the side of his face and forcing him to look at me.
There’s nothing cold about this man.
He’s stripped down.
Stripped bare.
Groaning deep in his chest. Hips churning faster and faster, hitting me in just the right spot that I feel the drag of him against my clit on every forward stroke. Scarred mouth parted and gasping for air.
Welcome to the fire, Saxon Priest.
“Please.”
It’s all I say, all I ask, and his broad shoulders tense while his thrusting hips slow to an excruciatingly devastating pace. His unholy gaze fixes on my mouth, and I see the want there, the craving for what I’m offering him.
“Steal it,” I whisper, running my eyes over his stiff, uncertain features. “I breathe, you inhale, and we both go up in flames. Remember?”
Something in him implodes then.
I feel it in the way his arms bind around my back, securing me to him. In the way his mouth curls, but instead of snarling—or clamping his mouth shut before storming away—he confesses, “You’re my first, Isla Quinn. And, more than likely, my only.”