Page 111 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
I started lightly—barely touching, tracing slow circles around her clit without landing directly on it, watching as her hips rose to chase the sensation.Then I blew a breath, soft and warm, over her. She shuddered so hard her thighs jerked toward my head.
I stopped.
“Marc. Why?” She drew out the word.
I pressed my forearm across her lower stomach and held her down.
“Marc—”
“Unless you’re asking me to stop, which I will, stay still, Delaney.” She made a sound that was half frustration and half desire. I took that as my cue. I worked her slowly—reading the flex of her stomach muscles, which she tried to keep to a minimum, the way her breathing changed pitch, adjusting to the pressure the way she’d been showing me without knowing. Harder when she went quiet. Lighter when she gasped. Back and forth until she was shaking and her hands were fisted in the sheets.
When she was past words, I sucked her clit into my mouth, and she let go with a long, loud moan.
Her thighs locked around my head, and her back arched so high I thought it might crack, and she said my name—not Kingsley, not a complaint, just “Marc”—in a voice I’d never heard before.
I stayed with her through it, keeping my touch feather-light while she came down, her whole body still trembling in small waves. Then I shifted—let the circles give way to long strokes, from her entrance to her clit, building the tempo so gradually she almost didn’t notice until?—
“Oh God.” Breathless. Wrecked. “I don't know if I can. I’m too sensitive.”
I raised my eyes to her. Her hair was messy. Her eyes were glassy. She appeared exactly like what she was—a woman who had come apart and was about to do it again.
“You can,” I said. “And you will. That was only one. You have three more to go.”
She made a sound that was half relief and half disbelief, and I had to press my smile into her thigh to hide it.
“As your reward for listening—” I traced my thumb through her, coating it in the warmth still pouring from her, then brought it up to circle her swollen clit in slow, deliberate strokes, “—this time you don’t have to hold back.”
“Oh, thank God,” she let out a breath.
I worked her until her hips were rolling again, then drew my finger down and rimmed her entrance, taking my time, circling until her whole body was straining toward me.
“Please.” Her voice had taken on a rougher edge. “Marc. Inside me. Please. My pussy is so empty and I need to feel your fingers.”
There it was. Not a negotiation—just need, stripped of every sharp edge. I added this interaction to the Delaney File knowing I’d be thinking about it for a long time.
“Because you did an excellent job telling me what you wanted …” I slid one finger in and heard her exhale like she’d been holding her breath since she last spoke. Then I added a second, feeling her adjust around me. Then a third.
“Still good?” I asked, watching her face.
“So fucking good,” she murmured. “Don’t stop.”
I didn’t. I worked her slowly at first—deep, curling strokes—until she started to chase the rhythm, her hips snapping up to meet me. Every time she moved, I matched her, let her set the tempo, felt the moment she stopped thinking and just started feeling.
Every twist of my wrist. Every curl of my fingers.
She was unraveling one layer at a time, and I had nowhere else in the world I wanted to be.
My cock was so hard it was practically ready to punch itself through the mattress. My hips moved on instinct, matching her rhythm, trying to get relief from the built-up tension until I forced myself to stop.
Tonight was for her. Not me.
I lowered my head and added my tongue—this time a figure-eight, slow loops around her clit, and she went rigid.
“Fuuuuck. Yes. There?—”
Then I found the spot—the one that made her whole body arch like a bow—and pressed in steady and sure until she broke. “Oh my God, Marc. Right there. Right there. Right?—”
The scream that came out of her was not quiet. Good thing I didn’t have neighbors who cared. Not that I minded, but she might have.
