Page 83 of Dominion's Guard
Her mouth curves wider. She undresses herself with the efficiency of a woman who spent years changing between shifts, and the speed is its own kind of challenge:I'll give you what you asked for, but I'll do it on my terms. She stands in front of me bare, chin lifted, stance easy, the scar on her forearm catching the low light, and the trust in that ease hits harder than any submission she's performed on the main floor.
I take my time looking. She lets me. The night is ours and the pace is mine and the woman standing in front of me with her weight on one hip knows both of these things and is daring me to make good on them.
I guide her to the bed and sit her on the edge, then kneel between her thighs. The reversal puts my mouth level with her stomach and my hands on her knees, and the sight of me on the floor sends a visible crack through her composure.
"This is new," she says. Her voice has dropped a register.
"This is overdue."
"I can't believe Andy Broussard is on his knees. The membership would riot."
"The membership isn't here." I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh, feeling the muscle tense under my lips. "Lie back."
She does, bracing on her elbows first and then lowering to the mattress, and her ribs are already expanding faster, the controlled rhythm giving way to shorter draws.
My hands spread her thighs apart, unhurried, and the scent of her arousal hits me before I'm close enough to taste, warm and salt-sharp and dense with the chemistry of a woman who has been wet since I sat down at her bar.
She is swollen, flushed dark pink, slick enough that the low light catches the sheen on her inner thighs, and the sight of her spread open under my hands pulls through my groin with a heaviness I feel in my cock and my jaw and the backs of my teeth.
I press my mouth to her. The first stroke of my tongue is flat and deliberate, dragging from her entrance to her clit with pressure that jolts her hips off the mattress, and the taste of her floods my mouth, salt and copper-sweet and her, the specific flavor I've been craving since the last time I had her on my tongue.
"Fuck," she breathes. "Andy."
"That's my name. Keep using it."
I settle into her with intent. My lips close around her clit and I suck, firm and measured, then release and trace the swollen nerves with the flat of my tongue in circles that have her fingers digging into the sheets within seconds. Her clit pulses under my mouth, tight and responsive, and when I press harder and quicken the rhythm she bucks into my face with a force that makes me pin her hips to the mattress with my forearms.
"You absolute bastard." The accusation arrives breathless and strained. "Let me move."
"No."
"Andy, I swear, if you don't let me..."
"You'll what?" I lift my mouth to look up at her, my chin wet, my lips swollen. She is propped on her elbows, flushed from her chest to her hairline, her hair falling loose around her face. Her jaw is set but her eyes are wide and her lower lip is swollen from her own teeth, and the war between the defiance in her chin and the surrender in her pupils is the most honest thing on her face. "Finish that sentence."
"I'll kill you."
"After." I lower my mouth again and slide two fingers inside her. She is hot and tight and the slick grip of her around my fingers sends a jolt straight to my cock where it's pressed into the edge of the mattress. I curl forward along the ridged spot on her front wall, stroking in rhythm with my tongue on her clit, and the sound she makes is guttural and wrecked and has no language in it, only need.
I hold her there, patient and steady and relentless. She fights me, not because she wants me to stop but because the fight is what gets her there, the struggle between submission and will that drives everything we do to each other.
Her thighs tremble on my shoulders. The wet sounds of my mouth working her fill the room alongside her ragged inhales, and the taste of her intensifies as she gets closer, the salt thickening on my tongue. Her fingers knot in the sheets and her hips strain under my forearms and the curses give way to pleas and the pleas give way to sounds that aren't words anymore.
"Come for me," I tell her.
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Renata. Come."
She does. The orgasm takes her hard, her body clamping around my fingers in rhythmic contractions I can feel gripping and releasing at my knuckles, her hips bucking under the hold of my arms, a cry wrenched from her throat that she doesn't tryto swallow. I keep my mouth on her through the aftershocks, easing the pressure to slow licks that draw out the trembling, and the whimper she makes when the sensitivity peaks and she pushes at my head with shaking hands tells me she's exactly where she wants to be and can't take another second of it.
I rise from my knees and strip while she lies spent on the sheets. My cock is aching, hard enough that the release from my pants is its own relief, and she watches me undress with the sharp-eyed attention that never shuts off, even post-orgasm, the assessment running behind the glaze because Renata's brain doesn't have a setting lower than armed.
Her gaze drops to my cock and stays there, and the look on her face is possessive in a way that has nothing to do with submission.
"Get up here," she says.
"You're giving orders again."
