Page 158 of A House of Gold
"Yours," I agree, gasping as his mouth closes over my nipple. "Always yours, even when, ah–"
He doesn't let me finish. Just moves to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, making me writhe beneath him.
"Croesus," I breathe. "Please."
"Patience." But his hand slides down my stomach, between my thighs, finding me already wet and ready. "Though you're making it difficult."
His fingers tease, stroke, circle but never quite give me what I need. It's maddening. Deliberate.
"I thought this wasn't supposed to be rushed," I gasp.
"It's not. I'm savoring." He slides one finger inside me, then another, watching my face even though he can't see the expressions I'm making. But he can feel them, through the binding, through the way my body responds to his touch.
"You're cruel."
"I'm thorough." His thumb finds my clit, circles slowly. "I want to remember exactly how you feel. How you sound. How you come apart under my hands."
"Then make me come apart."
He smiles against my skin. "As you wish."
He works me with expert focus, fingers curling inside me, thumb maintaining perfect pressure, mouth on my breasts. It's almost clinical in its efficiency, except for the emotions bleeding through our bond. His desperate need to please me. His fierce determination to make this perfect. His love, raw and overwhelming.
The pleasure builds, crests, and I come with his name on my lips, clenching around his fingers as waves of sensation crash over me.
He doesn't stop. Just keeps working me through the aftershocks, drawing it out, making it last.
When I finally collapse back against the bed, gasping, he withdraws his hand and brings his fingers to his mouth.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, tasting me. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come."
I should be embarrassed. Should feel exposed. But I just pull him down for a kiss, tasting myself on his tongue.
"Your turn," I whisper.
"No." He settles his weight more fully on top of me, and I can feel how hard he is, pressing against my thigh. "Tonightisn't about me. Tonight is about you. About making sure you remember this. Us. Before things change."
"Croesus," it’s not quite a whine, but it’s close.
"Let me love you," he says quietly. "Just let me love you. The way I want to. The way I need to."
How can I argue with that?
So I don't. I just pull him close and let him worship me.
He enters me slowly, carefully, like I might break. The stretch and fullness makes us both groan, and for a moment we just stay there, connected, breathing together, feeling everything through the binding.
"I love you," he says again.
"I love you, too."
Then he moves, and thought becomes impossible.
It's not rough. Not desperate. Just steady, deep strokes that hit perfectly every time. He sets a rhythm that's maddening in its consistency, building pleasure slowly, methodically, giving my body time to adjust and respond.
His mouth finds mine between thrusts. Kissing me like it's the first time, like it's the last time, like every kiss matters.
And it does. It all matters.
