Page 30 of The Vixen

He moves to the neglected collar bone, and my lips part at the subtle graze of his teeth.

“You don’t get to choose.”

His mouth pauses in a sloppy kiss. Cool air skims the dampened flesh of my shoulder as he moves on.

Without warning, his bottom lip drags up my neck until his teeth lock onto my earlobe.

I gasp—surprise, not pain. He doesn’t bite down, just … warns.

He chews on the tender flesh before flicking it with his tongue. “You’re right… Sorry, Your Grace.”

“You’re forgiven,” I whisper, my mouth parting with my quaking breath. “You may move onto my breasts now … Slave.”

He does.

Without a beat passing, his hand snakes around my back and unclasps my bra in a single jerk. As material falls, I cover my chest on impulse but don’t fight when Sawyer takes my wrist and lays my hands at my sides. White cotton slips down my arms.

He tugs the material to my wrists and wraps a knot that I snap loose with a breath.

He looks into my eyes. No guilt. No apology.

We stare at each other long enough it’s hard to tell who is asking permission. But it’s granted as Sawyer slowly takes the material and delicately ties a knot that’s both secure and gentle. Too elegant to alarm.

Careful.

He pulls back to study me, eyes drawn to my bare chest. My nipples throb beneath his gaze; the phantom feel of his mouth is so vivid I ball my hands into fists to halt a tremble.

I bite my lip and wait… But it’s his thumb that touches me first. He circles one of the tender, swollen buds so slowly I taste copper.

Freeing my lip, I swallow and hold steady. My core grabs at something he hasn’t offered. Something I haven’t decided if I’ll command.

“You’re beautiful, Your Grace,” Sawyer says in an authentic tone that stabs the back of my throat. I flinch—subtle. Maybe he doesn’t notice.

“Thank you, Slave.” I breathe in sharply as he licks his thumb and wanders to my other nipple. “But save your compliments. I didn’t believe you the first time you said it, and I don’t believe you now.”

I brace for his argument. But Sawyer doesn’t respond.

His mouth latches onto my nipple, his tongue circling the erect tip while my eyes snap wide. I look down at his hands bracing my ribs, at the slow pull of his mouth against my areola.

When he sucks, I let out a squeak that makes my hands jerk toward my mouth. They make it to my belly button before Sawyer catches my wrist, locks onto my eyes, and licks the peak of my nipple. The tight bud aches and slicks beneath his tongue—while my hips roll forward in a delicious grind, the seam of my pants fitting in the soft cleft between my legs.

I try to look away but can’t. I watch as Sawyer sucks me. Rolls me between his fingers and nips me. My hips roll helplessly, stitched wool dragging across my swollen clit, the pressure relentlessly inadequate.

More.

Time stretches while Sawyer teases my body. Nothing enough, nothing satisfying, and nothing I dare stop.

It goes on so long, Sawyer’s tongue must cramp, and my body forgets what relief feels like. The ache in my clit sharpens. My bottom lip caves as I bite down, a moan crawling up my throat.

Touch me.

Touch me.Now.

“Fuck,” I moan as my core clenches. The word comes out bitter and strange—never spoken before Sawyer. Ugly and crude and exact.

I weave my fingers through his hair and pull him closer to my breast. My grip yanks viciously as I grind against the bench.

It’s coming.