Page 24 of Beautiful Savage
Cannot look away either. The not-looking discipline reverses completely. Now I'm staring at her, memorizing every detail of her face while she memorizes mine. My pulse hammers in my throat, in my chest, in my cock that's so hard it hurts.
The weight of being seen crushes the last of my control.
My hands close around her wrists. Right wrist with the swab, left with thumb still on the saint. The grip is firm, not bruising, but I feel her pulse racing under my fingers.
I stand. She's forced to look up now. My body towers over hers in the narrow kitchen alcove. My erection presses against her stomach through our clothes, and she gasps softly.
"Stop looking at me like that." My voice cracks on the last word. The first time it's betrayed me in years. "I can't… fuck, Daphne, you don't know what you're doing to me."
She doesn't stop. Holds my gaze steady, unflinching. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I nearly lose it right there.
"Maybe I do," she whispers, so quiet I almost miss it.
The dam breaks.
I turn her, walk her three feet to the wall opposite the counter. Press her back against it. My body pins hers, my cock grinding against her hip. The alcohol swab stays clutched in her right hand.
My mouth finds her throat. Not her lips. We've already had that. This is different. Teeth graze the spot where neck meets shoulder. She tastes like salt and something clean, tastes the way she smells. I bite down gently, and she moans. A sound that goes straight to my cock.
"Fuck," I growl against her skin. "The sounds you make…"
My left hand braces against the wall by her head. My right hand moves between her legs, cupping her through her jeans. Even through the denim, I can feel the heat of her pussy. She's already wet. I can feel the dampness seeping through.
"You're soaked," I murmur against her throat, pressing harder with my palm. "Been thinking about this? About my hands on you?"
She doesn't say no.
She doesn't say yes either.
But her body answers for her. Her hips roll against my hand, seeking friction. Her free hand comes up to grip my hair at the skull. Fists hard, pulling me closer. The hand that touched the saint moments ago.
I move my hand between us, fingers trailing a path of heat along her denim-clad thigh. The swab is still clamped in her right hand. I can see how much she wants this, the way her body leans into me, the way her breath comes in desperate gasps, chest shuddering every time I press closer.
She tries to regain control, but it's slipping through her fingers. I can see the precise moment she gives up, lets it go. Her head falls back against the wall, exposing the pale arc of her throat. I watch her pulse race beneath skin so fine it seems almost translucent. My thumb finds the seam of her jeans, right where I know her clit will be. I press there, slow at first, a testing pressure, then with a rhythm that's calculated to drive her insane. Every motion is deliberate. Mechanical, almost cruel in its precision. I want her to remember this moment forever.
She makes a sound—high, breathless—and her hips jerk forward, chasing my thumb. Her thighs clamp around my hand, trapping it. I don't stop. I speed up, grinding the heel of my palm against her until I can feel her clenching through layers of stiff denim. I want her to fall apart against me. I want her to lose herself, just once.
"That's it," I murmur, voice low and guttural. "Ride my hand. Show me how bad you want it."
She tries to stifle a moan, but it escapes anyway. Her eyes flutter closed, and her whole body shakes. I can feel her getting close, the way her muscles seize and her breath goes ragged. I press harder, thumb working the seam in tight, relentless circles.
Her hand, the one that held the swab, drops to my shoulder. She claws at me, leaving angry red crescents in my skin. Her other hand fists in my hair, pulling me closer, and I let her. I want her mouth right at my ear, want to feel her breathy cries vibrate through me.
"You're soaked," I growl, "You want to come so bad, don't you?"
She manages a nod, barely. Her hips roll faster. The tension builds.
"You're going to come for me," I tell her, my words as much an order as a promise, "right here, against my kitchen wall. Still dressed, with my hand between your legs. And then you'll finishpatching me up while your pussy's still twitching, still hungry for more."
She whimpers at that, and I feel something in her snap. She bucks hard against my palm. Her face is buried in my shoulder now, muffling the sounds she can't help but make. I press my mouth to her ear, biting the lobe, tasting her sweat and wanting more.
"Come on, Daphne," I urge, "let go for me. I want to feel you fall apart."
Something gives, and her whole body goes rigid, arching off the wall. The first wave of her orgasm hits and she trembles so violently I have to lock my arm around her waist to keep her upright. She's gasping, panting, biting my shoulder to keep from screaming. Her thighs convulse around my wrist, squeezing so hard I almost lose circulation. I keep my thumb moving, drawing out every last spasm, every aftershock.
She's crying now, tears streaming down her face, and I want to say something to make it stop—but I don't. I know what these tears mean. I know what it is to be overwhelmed by sensation, to realize you're not as in control as you thought. I cradle her through it, hold her like she might break, even as the part of me that's still hard and hungry wants to push her over the edge again.
She collapses against me, boneless, breathing hard. Her pulse hammers against my collarbone. For a moment, we're still. Just breathing, existing in the same charged space. I can taste her in the air, the animal sweetness of her, and it drives me fucking insane.
