HER THIGHS CLENCHED INVOLUNTARILY AROUND HIS HEAD, the muscles trembling so violently she couldn't have stopped them if she tried. She could feel the strength in them giving way, turning liquid and useless, held together only by the iron grip of his hands splayed possessively across her skin. The heat of his palms burned through her, grounding her even as she felt herself starting to fracture, coming apart at the seams in a way that was both terrifying and inevitable. Every nerve ending felt exposed, raw, hypersensitive to the point where even the brush of air against her flushed skin registered as sensation. The scrape of his stubble against her inner thigh; the wet slide of his tongue; the fullness of his fingers, thick and perfect and curled just right. The obscene sounds filling the room—her wetness, his mouth, her broken gasps, his groans of satisfaction—all of it collided until it was overwhelming. The pleasure built with terrifying speed, no longer a slow climb but a vertical ascent that left her dizzy and desperate. It coiled tighter and tighter in her core, a spring wound past its breaking point. Her free hand clutched desperately at the sheets beside her hip, knuckles white, nails digging into fabric. But there was no stopping it, no slowing it down, not with the way he worked her with that maddening combination of fingers and tongue—the suction, the pressure, the curl and thrust and circle of movements that felt choreographed specifically to destroy her.
❛ Jack—oh God, Jack, I'm— ❜ But the sentence dissolved, fragmenting into a jagged, keening cry as the orgasm slammed into her with the force of a freight train she hadn't heard coming.
Her back arched violently off the bed, spine bowing in a curve that would have been painful if she could feel anything beyond the absolutely devastating pleasure ripping through her body in waves. Every muscle seized and released in rapid succession—thighs clamping around his head, stomach contracting, toes curling against the sheets—and she felt herself pulse and clench around his fingers with an intensity that bordered on violent. She could feel the rush of wetness flooding his hand, coating his fingers, his mouth, could hear the obscene sounds of him working her through it with unrelenting devotion, refusing to let up even as she shook and sobbed and fell completely apart. It went on forever. Wave after wave crashed over her, each one stealing her breath, her thoughts, her ability to do anything but feel. Her hips bucked uncontrollably against his mouth, chasing and fleeing the stimulation in equal measure as the pleasure crested again and again, rolling through her in aftershocks that left her gasping. Distantly, she registered her own moans—high and broken and unrecognizable—crying out again and again. Her fingers tightened convulsively in his hair, holding him there against her—or maybe holding herself together, keeping herself from flying apart into a million irretrievable pieces. The peak seemed to stretch impossibly, suspended in that place where pleasure became almost unbearable, where every nerve screamed with overstimulation and yet still craved more. She could feel tears tracking hot paths from the corners of her eyes, streaming back into her hairline, dampening the pillow beneath her head. Her chest heaved with ragged, sobbing breaths that she couldn't quite catch, lungs burning as though she'd run miles instead of lying here coming undone beneath his mouth. When the intensity finally began to ebb—slowly, reluctantly, like a tide going out—she felt utterly wrecked. Boneless. Every muscle in her body had gone liquid, trembling with residual aftershocks that pulsed through her at irregular intervals. Her thighs quivered where they still bracketed his head, the muscles twitching involuntarily. She was dimly aware of the sweat cooling on her skin, her heart hammering against her ribs as if trying to escape, the strange, floating sensation in her head that made the room feel distant and dreamlike.
Jack was still between her thighs, and the realization filtered through the haze slowly. She could feel him pressing soft, reverent kisses to her oversensitized flesh—gentle brushes of lips against her inner thigh, the tender skin where hip met leg, the curve of her mound. Each touch sent little sparks skittering across her nerves, making her twitch and gasp. When his fingers finally slipped out of her, the withdrawal was achingly slow, gentle in a way that somehow made it more devastating. She felt the emptiness acutely, a hollow ache that made her whimper. The orgasm should have been enough. It should have sated her, leaving her drowsy and content and ready to curl into his arms and drift off. Instead, it had only intensified the need, and now it had edges and teeth. Because that had been his mouth, his fingers, his devotion . . . but it hadn't been all of him.
She blinked once, twice, trying to clear her sight, and then she looked down at him.
( The sight nearly undid her all over again. ) Jack was still kneeling between her spread thighs, and he looked absolutely wrecked. His hair was completely destroyed by her hands, salt-and-pepper strands sticking up at chaotic angles; his face was flushed, a deep red that spread from his cheeks down his neck and probably lower, though she couldn't see past his shoulders from this angle. His lips were swollen and glistening—wet with her—and his chin, his jaw, even the tip of his nose bore evidence of what he'd just done to her.
❛ Holy shit, ❜ she managed to breathe, and her voice came out barely more than a rasp. Her throat felt raw, and she distantly realized she must have been louder than she'd thought, must have been screaming or sobbing or both while he'd taken her apart. Her hand loosened its death grip in his hair, trembling fingers sliding down to cup his jaw. She could feel the scratch of stubble against her palm, the heat of his flushed skin, thumb brushing over his lower lip—swollen, slick, still wet with her—and the contact sent a shiver through both of them. Her hips shifted restlessly against the mattress, thighs falling open wider in unconscious invitation, and she felt the slickness between them, felt how ready she was despite—or maybe because of—the intensity of what had just happened. She tugged gently at his jaw, urging him up toward her with trembling fingers that refused to be steady. Her other hand reached for him blindly, sliding down from where it had been fisted in the sheets to find his shoulder, his bicep, mapping the solid muscle and heat of him through touch alone. She needed him closer. ❛ Come here, ❜ she whispered, her fingers tightening on his jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge where she could feel the muscle jump and flex. ❛ Jack, please. I need— ❜
Her hand slid from his shoulder down his arm, fingertips trailing over heated skin and flexed muscle, mapping the contours of him with deliberate attention. When she reached his hand—the one still splayed possessively across her thigh—she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged, urging him forward, up, closer. Her other hand was lower still, fingers trembling with urgency now, until she found the waistband of his boxers. The elastic sat low on his hips, and she could see the outline of him clearly, the substantial length straining against the dark fabric, a damp spot visible at the tip where he'd been leaking. She hooked her fingers into the waistband and tugged, looking up at him through her lashes to gauge his reaction. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp intake that made his chest expand against her palms, and his eyes went impossibly darker. She took that as permission—as encouragement—and pulled more insistently, drawing the fabric down over his hips. He helped her, lifting slightly to give her access, and then he was free, springing out to rest heavy and hot against her lower belly. She wrapped her hand around him almost reverently, fingers barely meeting around his girth, and the sound he made—a choked, desperate groan that seemed to tear from somewhere deep in his chest—sent liquid heat pooling between her thighs all over again. He was so hard, so hot in her palm, silky skin over rigid flesh, and when she stroked up slowly, experimentally, his hips jerked forward involuntarily into her grip.
Her hips shifted again, rolling in a slow, deliberate movement. She could feel how wet she still was, how ready, could feel the way her body clenched and ached for him.
❛ I want to feel you, ❜ she breathed. ❛ All of you. Please. ❜