Page 77 of Dominion's Guard
"On your knees," he says.
"You're very fond of that phrase."
"You're very fond of pretending you don't like hearing it."
The accuracy of that shuts my mouth faster than the command. The flogger stripped the brat down to the wire, but the wire is still live, still sparking, and I shed the robe and drop to the carpet with a look that saysI'm choosing this, and we both know the difference.
His hand threads through my hair, tipping my head back. "Tell me why you're here."
"Because I want to know what happens when I stop performing."
"Then stop performing. Show me."
I reach for his belt. The leather slides through the buckle, and my fingers work the button and the zipper with the dexterity that Margot hired me for. I push the leather pants down his hips. He is hard, thick, the head flushed dark, and the sight of him this close makes my mouth flood with saliva. I wrap my hand around the base, feeling the heat of him, the ridge of the vein along the underside, the way his stomach muscles contract when I tighten my grip.
"You've been this hard since the cross," I say, looking up at him. "I could feel it against my back."
"Since before the cross." His voice is rough. "Since you walked out of the locker room in that corset."
"Your poker face needs work, Detective."
"My poker face is fine. You're just paying closer attention than you want to admit."
I lean forward and press my tongue flat against the underside, dragging from the base to the tip in a slow, wet stroke. The taste of him is clean skin and salt and the faint musk that is purely Andy, the scent I've been breathing against histhroat but stronger here, more concentrated. His grip tightens in my hair.
I take him into my mouth. My lips stretch around the head, my tongue circling the ridge, pressing into the sensitive notch beneath it. A low groan grinds out between his teeth, controlled and bitten off, the sound of a man holding his composure by his fingernails.
"Eyes on me," he says.
I look up at him with his cock in my mouth, and the eye contact while I'm kneeling and he's standing over me with his fist in my hair is the most honest act of submission I have ever given anyone. His jaw flexes. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that could strip paint.
I pull back and take him again, deeper, relaxing my jaw, letting him slide past the resistance at the back of my mouth. My throat opens around him and the stretch aches in a way that makes my eyes water. I swallow around his length, and the groan he gives me is rougher, less controlled, something he doesn't bother to suppress.
"Fuck." The word comes out guttural. "Your mouth, Renata."
His hips flex, a tiny, involuntary push that tells me the patience is costing him more than he'll admit. I hollow my cheeks and suck on the withdrawal, letting my tongue drag heavy along the underside, tasting the salt leaking from the tip. His hand fists harder, the grip stinging my scalp, sending a bright line of heat straight down my spine and between my legs where the denied orgasm is still simmering.
"Deeper." The command is quiet and rough. "Take all of me."
I take all of him. My nose presses against his stomach, his cock seated fully in my throat. My jaw burns. My eyes stream. I hold, swallowing around his length, and what he gives up is guttural and private and mine, ripped out of a man who hasspent months being patient and is watching me dismantle that patience from my knees.
I pull back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his cock. I take him again without wiping my mouth, wet and messy and graceless, and the sounds filling the room are slick and rhythmic and explicit enough that anyone in the hallway would know what is happening behind this door.
His free hand cradles the side of my face. His thumb traces my stretched lower lip where it wraps around his shaft, feeling himself inside my mouth, and the gesture is so possessive and so tender at the same time that my brain short-circuits. He holds my face like it is precious while his cock fills my throat, and I have no framework for reconciling those two things.
"You're ruining me," he says, and the admission sounds like it was dragged out of him under duress. "You know that."
I pull back far enough to speak. My lips are swollen and wet. "Good. You've been ruining me for months. It's about time I returned the favor."
His thumb catches the saliva on my chin. "Get up here."
"Wasn't that supposed to be 'stop'?"
"That was supposed to be I need to be inside you before I lose what's left of my self-control." He draws me up by my hair, gentle enough not to hurt me, firm enough that I feel it. My jaw aches in a way that will last for hours. I pushed Andy Broussard to the edge of his patience with my mouth, and that is a victory I intend to savor for weeks.
His mouth finds mine, and he kisses me tasting himself on my tongue, the kiss deep and thorough, his hands framing my face as though the woman who just had him in her throat is someone worth kissing gently. My knees go soft at the whiplash between raw and reverent.
"You taste like me," he says against my lips.
