Page 114 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
“Sit on my face,” I commanded.
The silence that followed was spectacular.
“I’m sorry,” she said slowly, blinking at me from the pillow with an expression of confusion, as though this request deserved clarification because her brain couldn’t process my words. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Marc.” She gestured vaguely at herself. “I’ve come three times. I’m a mess. My legs don’t work.”
“Your legs don’t have to work. That’s the whole point.”
“You want me to sit on your face?”
“Enthusiastically.”
She stared at me. Then, slowly, a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth—a dangerous one, the one I’d been cataloging for months, if not years—and she said. “You’re going to have to help me.”
“I was counting on it.”
I helped her get upright, helped her swing her leg over, and guided her forward until she was exactly where I wanted her. “Hold on to the headboard.”
She grabbed it without argument. Orgasm-drunk, cooperative, and absolutely stunning.
At my first touch, her whole body bucked. “It’s too much—Marc, I can’t.”
I held her hips tighter and kept going. My tongue moved faster, circling, flicking.
The sounds she made this time were different—lower, less controlled, like she’d run out of energy to manage her own reactions. Her thighs shook against my shoulders.
Her body tensed faster than the other three times.
She moaned and whimpered, chanting, “Fuck.” Over and over again. Her rhythm broke as I pushed her higher.
I sucked her clit into my mouth.
When she came, it was with a keening cry I felt in my sternum. And a rush of wetness slid down my chin.
Her hands white-knuckled the headboard, and her body went slack all at once.
Four.
I eased her off carefully—she was boneless, which had been the plan—and pulled back the covers and tucked her in like she was something precious, worth taking care of, because she was.
Her hand reached as I stood.
I squeezed it. “I’ll be right back.”
I ran a washcloth under warm water and came back to find her exactly where I’d left her, eyes half-closed, her body fully relaxed. I cleaned her up gently, left the cloth on the nightstand, and brushed back her hair from her face.
“Are you okay?”
“I think my soul left my body,” she murmured. “Can you tell me when it comes back?”
I laughed—loudly, the kind that came from somewhere unguarded—and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve never done that before.” The corner of her mouth curved, small and unguarded, her eyes not quite meeting mine.
“What do you mean?”
