Page 72 of Nash
"Hands. Down."
She puts her hands on the mattress, fingers gripping the sheets, her jaw set in the way that tells me she's obeying and furious about it.
I kneel between her legs and part her thighs with my hands. She's wet, slick, her clit swollen, and the sight of her open for me punches through every wall I've built. I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh, and she jerks.
"Stay still."
"I can't stay still when you're—"
I drag my tongue through her folds, slow, flat, from entrance to clit, and the rest of her sentence disappears into a moan that she tries to muffle with her hand.
"Don't cover your mouth." I pull her hand away. "I want to hear you."
"Nash, I swear to god—"
I suck her clit between my lips and her back arches off the bed. Her hand flies to my hair, gripping hard, and I let her because some rules are meant to be broken when the sound she's making is that good.
I work her with my tongue, slow circles that tighten, cataloging what makes her hips roll, what makes her thighs clamp against my ears, what makes her voice climb until she's saying my name on every breath.
"Nash. Nash. Oh fuck, Nash, I'm going to—"
I stop. Pull back. Press a kiss to her inner thigh.
"What the FUCK?"
"Not yet."
She lifts her head off the pillow. Her face is flushed, and her hair is wild. Her eyes blazing with the specific fury of a woman who was ten seconds from coming and just had it taken away.
"Nashville Sutton, if you don't put your mouth back where it was—"
"Ask nicely."
"I will END you."
"That's not nicely."
She stares at me. Her chest heaves. Her thighs are trembling against my hands.
"Please," she says. The word comes out rough, stripped bare. Her eyes hold mine while she says it, her chest heaving, her fingers gripping the sheets.
I hold her gaze. "Please what?"
"Please make me come. Please, Nash. Please."
I lower my mouth back to her, but I don't give her the rhythm she was chasing. I start slow. Soft. My tongue traces the length of her, tasting her, and the taste of her settles into my bloodstream and stays. She's salt, heat, and something sweet underneath; I desire to live here.
Her hips lift, searching for pressure. I press them back down with my palm and keep the pace mine.
"Nash, please—"
My tongue flattens against her clit, holds there, letting her feel the warmth, the pressure. Her thighs tremble against my jaw. The flush on her chest spreads up her throat, pink bleeding into the freckles I traced with my eyes for months. Her skin is hot under my hands.
One finger slides inside her. Slow. She clenches around it, and the sound she makes is low. Broken. It's the sound of a woman who is done pretending she doesn't need this. My knuckle curls against the spot that made her back arch the first time. I press, and her whole body rolls toward my mouth.
A second finger joins the first. Her hand finds my hair and grips. My tongue and my fingers find a rhythm together, building her in layers, each pass tighter, each stroke deeper. Her hips start moving against my mouth, small involuntary rolls she can't control, her breathing climbing until it's coming in short, sharp gasps.
The sight of her when I pull back just enough to look makes my chest ache. Her stomach is taut, trembling. The flush has reached her face. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, swollen and red. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I want to watch her fall apart with my name in her mouth.
