Page 79 of Relapse

“Mmmm” I mutter against her skin. “Maybe, but we both know you like that,”

Blair laughs softly beneath me, breathless now, her thighs tightening around my hips when I bite gently at the base of her throat before soothing it with my mouth.

“You still thinking about him?” I murmur quietly against her collarbone.

Blair immediately smirks despite how wrecked she already looks.

“Little bit.”

Brat.I bite her again slightly harder this time, forcing a surprised sound from her lips while my hand grips her thigh tighter.

I laugh against her skin, then move lower. My hands find the hem of her panties, and I don't ask. I just pull. She lifts her hips to help, and they come off, tossed somewhere into the dark, soaked with her arousal, and I groan at the sight of her.

"Look at you," I murmur, my thumb pressing against her clit through the fabric. "Soaking wet already."

She bites her lip, refusing to answer.

I lean down, my breath hot against her pussy, and flatten my tongue, keeping my eyes on hers as I run it across her folds. She jerks, a sharp gasp escaping her, and I do it again, slower, savoring the taste of her.

"Fuck, Noir—"

"That's it," I say against her, my tongue dipping under the edge of the lace. "Say my name. I want to hear it."

But I don't give her what she wants. Not yet.

I pull back, sitting up just enough to look at her—spread out beneath me, hair wild, lips parted, chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

Fuck, I want to fucking ruin her.

"Turn around," I say.

She blinks. "What?"

"On your knees. Face the back of the couch."

For a second, I think she's going to argue. I see the smartass comment forming on her lips, the tilt of her jaw, the glint in her eye. But then something shifts. Her expression softens, just a fraction, and she does what I ask without a word.

She turns, braces her hands on the back of the couch, and presents herself to me.

The dim light of the apartment paints across her body. The curve of her spine. The swell of her ass. The way she looks back at me over her shoulder, thick hair falling across her face, lips parted and waiting.

I'm hard as fucking steel. I unbutton my jeans, shove them down, and press the head of my cock against her wetness. She's slick and hot, and when I push inside her in one slow, deep thrust, we both moan.

"Fuck," she breathes, her forehead dropping against the couch back.

"Yeah," I agree, my hands gripping her hips. "Fuck."

I start slow—deep, rolling thrusts that make her ass press back against me, that make the couch creak in rhythm. The rain drumbles against the glass. The smoke from the cigarette curls past us, thin and ghostly.

And I can't stop looking at her. The way her body takes me, the way her fingers curl into the cushions, the little sounds she makes every time I bottom out.

"You feel that?" I ask, my voice low and rough. "Feel how much I fucking missed you?"

"Mmm—Noir—"

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," I continue, my pace quickening, my grip tightening.

She whimpers, and I know it's not from the roughness.