Page 43 of Riot

Tugging me down, he guided me onto the bed. I went willingly, letting him arrange me against the pillows. The comforter was soft beneath my back, still carrying his scent. He settled beside me, one arm braced near my head, the other tracing idle patterns across my collarbone.

His mouth found mine. The kiss was slow this time. Deep. His tongue swept inside, and I opened for him without hesitation. The kiss went on and on until my lips felt swollen and my thoughts had scattered like marbles on a hardwood floor.

Breaking away, he trailed kisses down my jaw, my throat, the hollow where my pulse hammered. His beard left a pleasant burn in its wake. My hands roamed across his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle, the shift of bone beneath skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he said against my chest. “Every part of you.”

Heat flooded my face. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t tell me what I have to do.” His teeth grazed my right nipple, and my words broke into a sharp gasp. His tongue soothed the sting immediately. “I say what I mean. Always.”

His mouth continued its path downward, leaving wet kisses across my ribs, my stomach, the sensitive skin just above my hipbone. My cock strained upward, hard and aching, but he bypassed it entirely. Instead, he pressed his lips to the inside of my thigh.

“There’s a very important part you’re ignoring,” I managed to say.

“Patience.” His breath ghosted across damp skin. “Want to take my time with you.”

“Your concept of time is terrible.”

His laugh vibrated against my thigh. He lifted his head and looked up at me from between my legs, and the sight of him there—lips reddened, eyes dark, beard slightly mussed—nearly undid me on the spot.

“Bossy,” he said.

“Starving.”

His mouth closed around my erection before I could get another word out.

Heat. Wet heat and pressure and the slide of his tongue along the underside of my cock. My back arched off the mattress, a sound tearing from my throat that was half moan, half his name. His hand pressed flat against my stomach, holding me in place while he worked me deeper.

The world narrowed to the pull of his mouth, the rhythm of his head bobbing, the occasional scrape of teeth that danced right on the edge of too much. My fingers twisted in the comforter, knuckles going white. His name fell from my lips in fragments, broken syllables that didn’t form anything coherent.

He pulled off with a wet sound that made my face burn. “You taste good.” His voice came out rough, scraped raw. “Could do this all night.”

“Please don’t.” My hips bucked involuntarily. “I’ll die.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” He dipped back down, his tongue tracing the vein along the underside before taking me deep again. One of his hands slid lower, cupping my balls, and the dual sensation sent a jolt straight through my nervous system.

My thighs started trembling. Pressure coiled low in my stomach, building with every stroke of his tongue. My breathing went ragged, my chest heaving.

“Close,” I gasped. “Riot, I’m—”

He pulled off immediately, leaving me aching and desperate. A whimper escaped before I could stop it.

“Not yet.” He pressed a kiss to my hip. “Want you to come with me inside you.”

“Then get inside me.”

His laugh was low and rough. He reached toward the nightstand, rummaging through the drawer before producing a small bottle. The cap clicked open, and the faint scent of something slightly floral reached me.

“Sit up,” he said.

I pushed myself upright, leaning back against the pillows. Riot poured lube onto his fingers, warming it between his palms. Then his hand was between my legs, his slick fingers circling my entrance with gentle pressure.

The first finger slid in slowly. I forced myself to relax, to breathe through the stretch. He watched my face the entire time, reading every flicker of sensation, adjusting his movements accordingly.

“Good?” he asked.

“More.”