Page 66 of Honey Cut
“My answer is the same.”
I feel the flex of his hands against me, one on my back and one in my hair. “Truly?”
“Truly, sir.”
He groans, his mouth coming against mine in a hot, wet kiss. He tastes like the mint of his toothpaste still, with a hint of lingering juniper. The gin from last night.
“My God,” he says between kisses. “You have no idea how I’ve suffered. You make me want to break my own rules, over and over again.”
I laugh a little against his mouth, the sound strange to me and throaty. I haven’t laughed while being mauled like this since the yacht with Tristan. “Is sex every night considered suffering now?”
The hand in my hair is tight, and the one on my hip is bruising. “When will you start believing the things I say? I told you I would hold nothing back. I want to have you all the time, always, everywhere. I want you to be my shadows-and-glass girl—to be made of shadows with me. And”—he leans down to nip at my lower lip—“as much as I don’t mind an audience, I would like to enjoy you privately too.”
One hand slips between my legs, palming me over my silk sleep shorts.
“What’s your safeword?” he asks.
“Hyssop—”
I barely finish saying it before I’m on my back and he’s on top of me. His hair is completely unstyled, a gold mess, and it hangs between us. He blocks out what little light there is, nothing but arms and shoulders, and his hand is around my neck, gentle but unyielding. A collar made of flesh and bone.
“I have you now,” he says, and it almost sounds like he doesn’t believe it. Like he’s woken up and found that a dream he had is now here in his waking life. “You belong to me.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
His kiss is hard, a plundering thing, and his hand stays curled around my throat as his tongue delves deep, strokes against mine, as his lips spread mine open. I can feel the hard length of him pressed against my core, and even through his boxer briefs and my shorts, he’s burning hot, a brand pulled straight from the coals. Every time he rocks against me, a scatter of sparks shoots in my belly, kindling in the cradle of my groin. I whimper; he grunts. We’re fucking through our clothes. He bends down to lick and suck at my neck above his fingers and then drags his lips back to mine like just the few seconds away has him starving.
“You’re smiling,” he says against my mouth. “Tell me why.”
“Because this is so normal,” I whisper. “Making out until it turns into sex. I didn’t know you did that.”
He laughs, and I feel the laugh against my lips, a vibration from his chest into mine. “And I didn’t know you were so easily surprised.” He shifts, finding my thigh and tucking it around his hip. “Perhaps I’ve been normal all this time and only pretending otherwise.”
But the hand around my throat and the vicious roll of his hips say otherwise. This is still him, still the Mark who operates a Sybian as easily as most people operate a toaster. But this is something new, something almost frightening in its authenticity. We are laughing and dry-fucking like a couple on their first date,and yetI still feel that thrilling plunge of surrender, that tipping forward into a bottomless well of him, him, him.
He rides me through our clothes until I stiffen underneath him and release with a soft, punched exhale, the friction and the dig of his elbow against my ribs giving me just enough pain to let go of the constant control I have over my body.
I’m still contracting as he moves, kneeling between my legs and pulling off my shorts. Dawn is pressing into the corners of the room, and there must be enough light now that he can see the place between my thighs. He stares at it a moment, his breathing ragged, and then he gets onto his stomach, using his thumbs to spread my labia open.
“You are so beautiful here,” he says in a low, appreciative voice. “Like a flower after rain.”
He works his thumbs closer to the center, pressing me farther apart. I can feel his breath against the wet hole at the center of me, the ripe bud above. I know he can see my anus like this too, and I think about how he went down on me in the limousine, his thumb buried in my backside.
Mark moves his hands and then runs his nose along the crease of my thigh. I’ve kept myself bare since before the wedding, and I’m so glad for it this morning because I can feel his every breath across my sensitive skin, every inhale and every exhale. He presses his nose harder into me and then parts his lips against my cunt, inhaling with nose and mouth both.
“Stunning,” he murmurs to himself. “Exquisite.”
He uses his thumbs to part me again and treats himself to a long, swirling lick and then to several deep laps. My clit is already swollen and exposed, but he tugs up on the hood even more and uses the tip of his tongue to flick against the glans. My hips lift, and he slides an arm under one of my thighs and then bands a forearm across my hips.
“Now, now,” he says, his voice rough around the edges. “You wouldn’t want to get in trouble now, would you? A good girl like you?”
“No—no, sir.”
“Of course not. That’s why you’ll stay still for your husband.”
I try, I really do try. But his mouth is too wicked there, too shamefully curious. He goes inside me with it, both above and below. He maps every contour of my clit until I’m panting, my stomach quivering, my skin damp. And then he does something I could have never,everin a thousand years guessed that Mark Trevena would have wanted to do.
He has me sit on his face.
