Page 79 of Dominion's Guard
"I need you inside me." My voice cracks on the wordneed."Please."
He withdraws his fingers and lifts them to his mouth. He holds my gaze while he tastes me, his tongue cleaning each finger with a slowness that makes heat bloom low in my belly all over again.
"You taste like you've been waiting for this as long as I have," he says.
"Longer. You made me wait longer. You made waiting into a personality trait."
"Turn over."
The command is quiet and certain. I roll onto my stomach, and his hands grip my hips and lift, positioning me on my hands and knees. One hand presses flat between my shoulder blades,pushing my chest down toward the mattress until my back arches, my ass raised, my face turned into the sheets.
"This is how I want you," he says, and the raw ownership in his voice makes my stomach clench. "Exactly like this."
I feel him behind me, the head of his cock sliding through my folds, catching my clit on the downstroke, parting me without entering, coating himself in the wetness running down my thighs. A whimper escapes me that I could not have stopped if my life depended on it.
"Andy. If you don't fuck me right now, I swear to God I will make your life a living hell."
He pushes inside me in a single, deep thrust.
The stretch steals my voice. He is thick enough that the fullness borders on too much, the muscles still fluttering from the orgasm gripping him in rhythmic pulses I feel in my lower belly. He bottoms out and holds still, his hands on my hips, his breath ragged on my back, and the sensation of being completely filled after the hours of denial is so acute that my eyes close and my mouth opens on a silent sound.
"Color?" His voice is strained.
"Green. Move. Please move."
He moves. The first stroke is a slow withdrawal that drags along every nerve ending, the friction on my sensitized walls making me bite the sheet. The return is deep and angled to hit the spot his fingers found, and my body answers with an honesty I can't choreograph.
"You feel..." He stops himself. He starts again, rougher. "You have no idea what you feel like."
"Then tell me." I push back against him because I can't not, because the fullness of him hitting that spot on the return is wrecking me in real time. "You're the one who's good with evidence, Detective. Describe it."
His hand slides up my spine and wraps around the back of my neck, holding me down into the sheets, and the pressure of his palm on my nape sends a full-body shudder through me.
"Tight," he says, and the word is rough-edged and specific. "Wet. You're gripping me so hard I can feel every time you clench." He punctuates the observation with a thrust that drives the air out of my lungs. "And every time I hit this spot..." He angles deeper, and his voice drops. "You stop breathing for half a second and your whole body locks."
"I am going to murder you for being this observant during sex."
"You're going to come on my cock while I watch your face. That's what's going to happen."
His fingers dig into my hips hard enough that I will carry the bruises tomorrow, and the thought of wearing his prints under my clothes while I work the bar sends a spike of heat through me that makes me push back against him.
"Harder," I tell him.
"Ask properly."
"Harder. Please."
He gives me harder. His pace increases, the controlled rhythm giving way to force, and each thrust pushes me up the mattress until he grips the headboard for leverage. The angle shifts, and the new depth hits a place that makes my whole body seize.
"There." The word comes out strangled. "Right there. Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping." His hand leaves the headboard and slides into my hair, gathering it at the nape, tilting my head back. "Not until I feel you come apart."
"I am coming apart, you impossible man." My voice fractures on the last word, the brat splintering under the weight of the vulnerability, and what replaces the sarcasm is raw and exposedand real. "I've been coming apart since the cross. I've been coming apart since your kitchen. I've been coming apart since you sat at my bar and waited."
His rhythm falters. I feel it, the catch in his hips, the way the controlled pace stumbles for a beat. My words did that to him. The honesty hit harder than anything physical, and that is terrifying and addictive at the same time.
"Say that again," he says, and his voice has shed every layer of composure. "Tell me how long."
