Page 65 of Gilded Shackles
His eyes flash. His hand cups my face. "Say that again."
I let my fingers trail to his belt. "I thought you might like that... sir."
The sound he makes is half surrender, half warning.
His fingers tighten in my hair, testing, then pulling just enough to tilt my head back. The kiss that follows isn't sweet. It's a collision. Teeth, tongue, need, and the kind of heat that makes me forget the world outside this bed.
I pull away. Slide down his body, letting myself drag against every inch of him. He throws his head back with a groan that vibrates through the mattress.
I slap his reaching hand away. Not tonight.
Belt. Zipper. Pants off. Boxers gone.
And there he is. Thick and hard and straining, and the sight of him makes my mouth water in a way that should probably embarrass me but absolutely doesn't.
I fall to my forearms, ass in the air, and let my lips hover over the tip of his cock. My breath brushes his skin. My eyes never leave his.
He watches me like a man watching his own destruction approach and choosing not to move.
I let my tongue circle the head. Slow. Deliberate.
His hips jerk. His hand finds the back of my neck, not pushing, just resting. Holding on.
I take him into my mouth. Slow at first, learning the weight and heat of him on my tongue, then deeper. I feel him hit the back of my throat and hold him there, eyes watering, before sliding back up with a hollow-cheeked pull that drags a curse out of him so raw it sounds like prayer.
"Fuck, Elle."
I set a rhythm. Deep and slow, then faster, then slow again when I feel his thighs tense beneath my hand. I'm controlling this. Every stroke, every swallow, every wet, filthy sound between us is mine.
His fingers twist in my hair. His breathing fractures. "Look at you," he rasps. "Taking me so deep. So fucking perfect."
I take him deeper still. Feel the stretch at the corners of mylips, the ache in my jaw, the tears blurring my vision. But his voice, wrecked and desperate above me, is worth all of it.
"Elle," he warns, hips starting to buck. "I'm going to..."
His hand tightens. Pulls me off with a forceful tug.
I meet his gaze. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Problem, sir?"
His eyes go black. "My turn."
Before I can breathe, the world flips. One hard pull and I'm on my back, his weight following, solid and sure. His hands slide up my thighs, taking the robe with them, peeling silk off skin until I'm bare beneath him.
He kisses me, tasting himself on my tongue, and the intimacy of that makes something inside me ache. His hands are everywhere: my hair, my breasts, squeezing, claiming. When his fingers find the wetness between my thighs, he groans against my neck like the feel of me hurts him.
"Soaked," he murmurs, circling my clit until I'm writhing. "All of that from having me in your mouth?"
"Don't flatter yourself." I gasp as his fingers push inside. "Okay. Maybe flatter yourself a little."
He laughs against my throat. Dark. Warm. Then withdraws his fingers, brings them to his mouth, and tastes them while looking me dead in the eye.
I nearly combust.
"Turn over," he says. Voice like gravel wrapped in smoke.
The words hit me low and electric. I shift, rolling onto my stomach, and his hands find my hips, pulling them up until I'm on my knees, face pressed into the pillow, ass in the air.
