Rogue (Real #4)(38)

He pulls his finger out of me and stops me with both hands. “Leave it on,” he murmurs, then he rolls me onto my back and yanks my arms up over my head.

“But I want to touch you,” I breathe, undulating my body against the weight of his.

He pins my arms up in one hand and pulls off his tie with the other, then he wraps it tightly around my wrists. “Tonight, only I touch.”

“Why?”

“Because I say so.”

I can’t suppress my shudder of excitement as he peels off my panties. He ducks his head and flames lick across my body with each open kiss he places on me, and I tilt my hips upward as he dips his tongue inside my belly button. I gasp, my body craving him like sugar, like chocolate, like sex. “Please, oh . . .”

He murmurs shhh and opens my * with his fingers, eating me with his mouth. My head falls back and a noise of pleasure purls out of my throat as he starts thrusting his tongue into my channel, rubbing in a way that has me thrashing in absolute pleasure. “God, you make me lose it,” he breathes, tasting me again.

I quiver under him, spine arched, thighs spread open, aching for his touch, his tongue, his closeness. “Greyson,” I say, breathing in deep, soul-drenching drafts. He’s like every boy I made out with under the bleachers, every boy I’ve ever wanted who didn’t want me, everything that was forbidden to me. I groan as he licks a circle around my clit. “Oh god! Grey . . . Greyson . . . please . . . You’re—”

My breaths rasp in my throat when he lifts his head and I see the unmistakable possessiveness in his eyes. He kisses my taut nipples, then studies me, bound for him, in his bed. Using my legs, I curl my thighs around his hips, urging him closer. “I’ve never begged before, but I’m begging you to touch me.”

“What is it that you beg for, Melanie? I should be the one begging to touch you.”

His hands start dragging up my sides. Sensations so intense, every touch of his fingers crackles over me like burning fingertips. My muscles tense and knot as my body once again heads to that place where only he takes me, where he’s not only fulfilling a physical ache, but he gets access to a place where he can rip my soul open.

Closing my eyes as I feel some moisture burn inside them, I keep my arms over my head, bound by his tie, as he uses his thumb to play with my clit.

He does it harder, deeper, expertly. Our eyes meet, he crushes my mouth and whispers, “I’m the one who doesn’t f*cking beg, but I’ll beg for this *,” he rasps as his fingers prepare me, because he’s so big I need to be wet and ready and oh god, I’m so ready.

“Yes . . .” I say, the nearness of my orgasm audible in my voice, then his mouth is on mine again, our tongues making out, slick as he keeps rubbing me, his palm burning hot as he cups me and slides one finger in so deep. I tilt my pelvis, desperate for every inch. When he’s got me lathered up to explosion, he eases back to unzip his slacks.

My vision is blurry from wanting this. He doesn’t even kick his pants off. He shoves them down to his knees, baring his erection, his thick, powerful thighs.

Our mouths roam over each other as he aligns our bodies. “Hard!” I plead as I hook my bound wrists around his neck to keep him close, my lips raining kisses on his jaw. Last night, afraid and dirty and vulnerable, he was all I wanted. All I wanted. “I want you so much. HARD,” I gasp, suddenly vulnerable, shaking, needing.

Hungrily, I nibble on his nipple ring, and he responds with a growling noise and forces me down on my back. “Impatient, hungry little girl.” He grabs his cock and rolls on the rubber, and he looks as desperate as I am as he starts feeding the head to me. “Is this what you want?”


My eyes roll back from the pleasure and I cry, “Yes, all of it.” He groans when he sees my first tear fall, and when he cups his hands on my face as though to catch them and starts f*cking me for real, my body melts into his as the world becomes full of him. Just him. Only him.

He impales himself deeper, and I soar higher and higher. I can feel my nipples brushing his shirt, his hot breath on my face, his body in mine—and that’s all I know as my world careens on its axis. His hands won’t let go of my face, holding me for his every hard, fast, expert thrust. “That’s right, that’s exactly right, let go for me, let go for me, Melanie, I got you,” he murmurs, kissing my throat.

My breasts are budded pink at the tips from the scrape of his shirt; I love it. I love his smell, his hands, his voice. “Yes,” I gasp as he thrusts harder, my rhythm completely clumsy now. All I want is more of him, more of him, ALL OF HIM. “Yes, yes.”

He roars, head falling back, veins popping out in pleasure as he starts jetting off and I spread my legs wider apart as he grabs my hips and thrusts in harder, watching me lose it.

I moan and start to thrash, somehow aware that his eyes are devouring me as I shatter into a million glowing stars.

Moments later, I stir from my dazed stupor to notice he’s caressing one hand across my wet face, the other on my thighs where I was bruised. The touch melts me deep where it hurts me to remember, but right now, in his arms, a contentment and peace wash between us. I can feel it in his body too. As if he likes wiping my tears.

Sighing in relaxation when he kisses my temple and dries the rest of my face, I hook my bound hands around his neck and press myself into his chest.

“Nobody pushes me as far as you do,” I explain, my voice cottony.