Page 161 of Labyrinthine
“Look at you,” he murmurs, staring at me. “You undo me.”
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t demand.
He lowers his head again, kissing slowly down the center of my chest as though mapping me to memory. His hand cradles my ribs, steadying me, grounding me. My back arches of its own accord when his mouth finds my breast, and I gasp—sharp, involuntary—as his tongue flicks across my nipple, gentle at first, then firmer.
I clutch at his thighs, anchoring myself. He groans, the sound low and feral, but he doesn’t lose control. He simply takes his time, rolling his tongue in slow, deliberate circles until I’m panting, wordless, aching for more.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Because you’re cruel,” I whisper, breathless.
He huffs a soft laugh and presses a kiss over my heart before continuing downward, his mouth skating across my stomach. The teasing touch sends shivers dancing over my skin. I grip his hair, not to control him but to hold myself together.
His hands smooth over my hips and down the inside of my thigh. He lifts my leg carefully, spreading me open—and I hiss, flinching as stiff muscles protest. Immediately, he slows.
“You’re sore.”
I nod, biting my lip, but he’s already adjusting. His touch softens, soothing where he might have pushed.
Then he lowers his head.
His breath warms me. His tongue flicks against me, and my hips jerk. A moan escapes, half-shocked, half-relieved, as my body starts to unravel again.
“Good?” he murmurs.
I nod frantically.
“Relax,” he says, voice velvet and steel. “Let me care for you.”
He takes his time, slow circles of his tongue drawing my tension out, replacing it with heat. Pleasure builds, slow at first and then deeper, surging through me. He doesn’t overpower—it’s not about dominance. He’s attuned to me, watching every breath, every shift of my hips.
When he finally slides a finger into me, I gasp. My body clenches around him, and he groans in response. His mouth doesn’t stop. Tongue and hand working in tandem, building me back toward the edge he’s not yet let me cross.
It’s exquisite torture.
My hips move on their own now, grinding against his hand, chasing the pressure. He slides in a second finger, and I moan, craving more, desperate to shatter. My body begs for it.
But he slows.
I groan in frustration, writhing beneath him.
“Do you want to climax?” he asks, voice thick.
I nod, but he doesn’t move faster.
“Then ask.”
“Mallen…”
“Ask me.”
I whimper, biting back a growl. I’m trembling, caught in the space between pleasure and denial, and he watches me there—so calm, so composed—until I finally whisper, “Please.”
He smiles.
I blink up at him, lost in a haze of need, and he leans in.
