I slowly held his waist, my fingers digging into the hard, muscled curve of him, anchoring myself as my tongue found the hot, slick length of him. Licking. Sucking. Taking the lower part of him, the thick, heavy part that dangled against my lips, into my mouth.
I could see his eyes.
Half-lidded. Dark. Watching me with something I couldn't name—hunger, wonder, disbelief. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and his hands clenched the sheets, the fabric bunching beneath his straining fingers.
I was doing this.
I was making him feel this.
Twenty-one years of waiting, of control, of calculated precision—and I was the one unraveling him. I was the one making his breath hitch, his body tense beneath me, his skin flush with heat. I was the one claiming him, even as he owned every inch of me.
The thought floated through me, warm and strange, a flicker of power in the chaos of us.
