Page 240 of Terms of Exposure
"You're mine," I murmured against her skin. "All mine."
She answered with a groan, fingers threading in my hair.
My mouth traced her collarbone while my fingers found the zipper at her side. I dragged it down slowly, watching the fabric loosen, feeling her ribs rise beneath my palm with each unsteady breath.
"Lift your hips."
She did. I worked the dress down her body—past the softness of her stomach, the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the length of her thighs—then tossed it off the edge of the bed.
I sat back on my heels justto look.
Lace and skin and the glint of the collar at her throat. Lamplight painting her gold.
Perfection.
"You're staring," she whispered.
"I'm memorizing."
I lowered myself again, my mouth finding her sternum, kissing the space between her breasts.
Her fingers slid into my hair as I worked lower—the curve of her ribs, the dip of her navel, the edge of her lace.
I slid it down her thighs. I followed with my mouth.
Kissing. Tasting. Breathing her in.
By the time I settled between her legs, she was shaking—fingers twisted in the sheets, chest heaving.
"Look at me," I commanded.
Her eyes met mine as I lowered my mouth to her, the taste of her pussy like communion wine.
The sound she made—a moan so raw.
A gift I hadn't yet earned.
Her hand found my hair, fingers threading through, holding me close.
I took my time. Slow, reverent strokes of my tongue through her folds. Ones I knew would make her gasp. Make her hips roll.
Mine.
This wasn't about control.
Wasn't about power.
It was about showing her—with my hands, my mouth, my whole goddamn heart—that she was worth my worship.
I slid one finger inside her.
The world narrowed to her warmth. Her wetness. The way she clenched around me like she never wanted to let go.
The stuff of dreams.
"Damien—" Her voicecracked.
"I know." I curled my finger, finding the spot that made her hips jerk.
