Wicked Sexy (Wicked Games #2)(28)

“Maybe I should be the one telling you not to come,” she teases, drawing away with a soft, pleased laugh.

“You could tell me to do anything and I would.”

It’s out before I can stop it, a bald admission made even more plain by the tone of quiet vehemence with which it’s spoken. Tabby’s gentle smile slowly fades. We stare at each other, the moment stretching out past retraction, past any chance of reclamation with forced laugher we can hide behind and tell ourselves it means nothing, it’s only a stolen moment, soon to be forgotten with the morning light.

“Then, do anything,” she whispers, holding my gaze. “Do it all.”

I feel like a flock of birds has taken flight inside my chest. To distract myself from the imminent possibility that I’ll open my mouth and deliver this true but entirely emasculating line, I slide my hand down her body and slip my fingers into the tight heat between her legs.

“Wet,” I growl as she arches, gasping, her eyes gone wide. When I slide my fingers up and stroke them over her swollen clit, she moans.

It breaks the spell I’m under. Her moan takes me from swooning Romeo to snarling caveman in two seconds flat.

“You will not come,” I command, slide down the length of her body, spread her * open with my thumbs so that glistening pink nub at the top is exposed, and apply my mouth to it.

I suck. Greedily.

Her back bows from the bed. I push her down by her hips and hold her still like that, stroking my tongue over and around, sucking, making a meal of it and not caring at all how carnal it sounds, how loud it is in the stillness of the room. Tabby’s hands fist in the bedspread. Her entire body trembles beneath my hands.

When I feel her pleasure plateau, that inevitable flattening that reveals her brain is in a snarl, I lift my head and direct, “Flowers, Tabitha,” then go back to sucking.

She exhales a long, shaky breath. “Girassol,” she whispers.

I have no idea what that means, nor do I care. Here, at the core of her, she isn’t sweet. She’s salty and tangy and a little like the ocean, or grass. Grass drizzled in crack cocaine. It’s f*cking intoxicating. I hear myself making animal sounds deep in my throat, like a bear neck-deep in honeycomb.

A delicate shudder works its way through her. “Tulipa.”

A sudden dazzling bolt of lightning illuminates the room, and the lights flicker. The sound of thunder rolls through the walls. I slide a finger inside her, feel her muscles contract, add a second finger.

“Orquídea.”

With my teeth, I tug gently on the small silver stud in her clit, pressing my fingers deeper inside her, and get the immediate and gratifying feedback of the roll of her hips paired with a long, low moan.

“íris, jacinto, ervilha doce,” Tabby pants, writhing.

“Don’t. Come.”

She makes a small, pleading sound, her lips pressed flat together, her chest rising and falling, her pelvis flexing, riding the strokes of my tongue.

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to sit up and sink my throbbing cock as far as it will go into her delicious cunt and start pounding. I’m out on the ragged edge of my own restraint, watching her fall apart, stunned by how beautiful she is, how brave, and by the force of how much I want from her.

How much more I want from her than this.

You’re mine, I want to say, but can’t, because she isn’t.

With deliberation, I suckle her, reach up with both hands, and firmly pinch her nipples.

“Connor,” she says, stiffening.

“Yes, sweetheart,” I whisper, watching her face. I return to my sucking.

She says my name again, a fractured sound, cut off at the end when she cries out, her body taut as a piano wire, her arms outflung, still entangled in her jacket.

With convulsions that shake the bed, she orgasms in my mouth.

Thunder booms. Lightning flashes. The first of the rain begins a soft, drumming song against the roof.

And for the first time in my adult life, I discover the true meaning of the word yearning.

This—this moment, this feeling—is everything I didn’t know I wanted or was missing, made all the more agonizing by the freezing realization that it’s precisely this that Tabby doesn’t want.

At least not with me, for longer than one night.

She’s crying a soft repetition of oh God oh God oh God, still straining against my mouth, her heels digging into the mattress, hands bunching the covers in her fists, and I can no longer wait.

“I need to be inside you,” I say, my voice rough with desire. When she whispers, “Hurry,” her hips still undulating, I don’t hesitate.

My wallet is on the nightstand beside the bed. I reach for it, fumble out a condom, fling the wallet aside. With lightning speed, I roll it down my engorged, aching cock. Then I take my erection in my fist, pull her toward me with my other hand wrapped around her hip, and slide the head between her soaked folds.

I drop my weight to a hand, planted on the mattress beside her. Moaning, she cants her hips higher, using her thighs to lift her bottom off the bed, grabs my ass with both hands, and pulls me inside her body. Deep.

Slick, tight heat, still rhythmically spasming—I can’t help myself. From my throat comes a loud, broken moan.

We stay locked like that for what feels like forever, suspended, unmoving, until finally the pulsing inside her * slows to a stop, and she collapses back against the bed, taking me with her.