Page 151 of No One But Me
The kiss deepened, turned ravenous. His hands framed my face like I was something precious he'd spent his whole life searching for, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except kiss him back with everything I had. Everything I'd been holding back. Everything I'd sworn I'd never give him.
Everything.
His hands were everywhere—rough, desperate, like he was trying to memorize me through touch alone. The shelf dug into my back, books rattling around us, but I didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when his mouth was on mine, not when his fingers traced the waistband of my jeans, not when every breath between us felt like a confession.
I gasped against his lips, my voice breaking on his name. "Gideon?—"
He stilled.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
His blue eyes locked onto mine, searching, demanding, needing—and that was what shattered me. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered, like my answer was the only thing that could break him.
"Do you want me to stop?"
The question hung between us, heavy and dangerous. A test. A challenge. A line in the sand.
I should’ve said yes. Should’ve pushed him away, should’ve remembered every reason this was wrong, should’ve?—
But then his fingers hooked into the waistband of my jeans, tugging them down just enough to expose the lace of my underwear, and my breath hitched.
"Let’s test that theory, hmm?" His voice was rough, dark with something that wasn’t just desire—something raw, something real. He didn’t wait for an answer. Just slid my jeans down my hips, my thighs, until they pooled at my ankles. Then his hands were back, gripping the lace, and with one sharp tug?—
"Goddamn," he groaned, his breath hot against my skin as he looked at me. "Your pussy is a masterpiece."
The words should’ve been crude. Should’ve made me flinch. Should’ve reminded me of every reason to hate him. But the way he said it—like he was worshipping, like he was drowning—sent a rush of heat straight through me.
His fingers traced me, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch. I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve screamed, should’ve fought, should’ve?—
But then his thumb pressed against me, just there, and my hips jerked forward without permission. A broken sound tore from my throat.
Gideon’s smirk was dark, triumphant. "Still think you want me to stop?"
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because the truth was, I didn’t.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
"I think I'm going to fuck you today," he drawled. "I think I'm going to come so deep into your pussy that you taste me on your tongue."
His words hit like a blade between my ribs.
A whimper tore from my throat, raw and helpless, as he sank to his knees in front of me. His gaze locked onto mine, dark and heavy-lidded, like he was already imagining exactly how this would end.
"You're so damn wet." His voice was a growl, rough with something that wasn’t just hunger—something deeper, something that made my stomach twist. His fingers slid inside me before I could protest, before I could even breathe, and the sound that left me wasn’t mine. It was needy. Broken. His.
Then his mouth was on me.
Hot.
Relentless.
His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, like he was savoring every second, every tremor, every gasp I couldn’t hold back. My hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, gripping tight—not to pull him away, but to keep him there, because the pleasure was too much, too sharp, too good, and I hated myself for it.
"Gideon—"
