Page 43 of Ruthless Bond

“Beautiful,” he says. Not as a line. He says it like a man stating an empirical fact. His hands come up and cup my breasts and his thumbs trace circles around my nipples and the sensation makes me shudder.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he says against my skin, his mouth trailing from my collarbone down to the swell of my breast. “Every day in that office. Every time you walked past me and I could smell your skin. I’ve been imagining this.”

His mouth closes around my nipple and the heat of it makes me cry out. He sucks gently, then harder, his tongue working against the stiffened peak, and my hands find the back of his head and my fingers curl into his hair. He moves to the other breast and gives it the same attention, and by the time he lifts his head my breathing is ragged and my hips are rocking against the edge of the mattress, searching for friction I can’t find.

He pulls my panties down and I’m naked on his bed and he’s still fully dressed, kneeling between my thighs, and the power imbalance of it does something to me that I’m not prepared for. I’m exposed. He’s not. He’s looking at me with those gold-edged eyes and I can see the hunger in them, undisguised, and instead of making me feel vulnerable it makes me feel powerful, because that hunger is mine. I’m the one causing it.

“Lie back,” he says.

I do what he says. He hooks his hands under my thighs and pulls me toward the edge of the bed and parts my legs and I feel his breath against me before I feel his mouth and the anticipation is so intense my hips lift off the mattress.

“Dominic.”

“I’ve got you.”

His mouth finds me. The first stroke of his tongue against my clit is slow, deliberate, and so hot that I grab fistfuls of the sheets and arch off the bed. He groans against me and the vibration travels through my core. He licks me again, longer this time, a flat, firm stroke from my entrance to my clit that makes my thighs tremble.

“You taste incredible,” he murmurs against me, and the sound of his voice there, between my legs, low and thick with want, makes my whole body clench. “So sweet. So wet. Sophia, you’re dripping.”

He’s not wrong. I can feel how wet I am, the slickness spreading as his tongue works me. The obscenity of it, of this polished, controlled man on his knees devouring me like I’m the only thing that matters, is almost more arousing than the physical sensation.

He finds a rhythm. Circling my clit with the tip of his tongue, then sealing his mouth around it and sucking gently, alternating pressure and pace until he finds the exact combination that makes me lose the ability to form words. My heels dig into his back. My hand is in his hair. The other is gripping the sheets so hard my fingers are white.

“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear you. I want to hear every sound.”

He slides two fingers inside me and curls them forward and the pressure of that combined with his tongue on my clit is so intense my vision goes black at the edges. I’m making sounds I don’t recognize, whimpers and gasps and his name repeated like a chant. He’s working me relentlessly, his fingers stroking that spot, his mouth hot and wet and tireless.

“You’re close,” he says. Not a question. He can feel it, in the way my walls are tightening around his fingers, in the way my breathing has gone ragged, in the way my thighs are shaking against his shoulders. “Come for me, Sophia. I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

I come. Hard. The orgasm rolls through me in waves that start at my center and radiate outward until my whole body is trembling, and he doesn’t stop, his mouth working me through it, extending it, drawing it out until I’m gasping and pushing at his head because the sensitivity is too much. He lets me go, pressing one last kiss against my inner thigh, and I lie there boneless on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how lungs work.

He stands. He peels his shirt over his head and his body in the dim light from the windows is everything I’ve been imagining for weeks and more. Broader. Harder. The muscle definition of a man whose physicality isn’t gym-built but functional, earned through running and fighting and doing things with his body that I’m only beginning to understand. His skin radiates heat so intense I can feel it from two feet away.

He unfastens his pants and pushes them down and he’s hard, fully erect, thick and flushed dark with blood. And huge. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry and the orgasm I just had suddenly feels like a warm-up rather than a main event.

He crawls over me. His body covers mine and his skin against my skin is a shock of heat that makes me arch up into him. I can feel the length of him pressed against my thigh, hard and hot, and I reach between us and wrap my hand around him. He hisses through his teeth. He’s thick enough that my fingers don’t close all the way, and when I stroke him his hips thrust into my grip involuntarily and the sound he makes, a low, ragged groan, is the most satisfying thing I’ve ever heard.

He settles between my legs. The head of his cock slides through my wetness, nudging my clit, and I whimper. He notches against my entrance and pauses and looks at me and his eyes are pure gold, no gray left. The expression on his face is reverent and feral in equal measure.

“Sophia. If we do this, I can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

He pushes in. One long, firm stroke that fills me completely, that stretches me in a way that borders on pain without crossing into it, and my head drops back and my mouth opens and the sound that comes out of me is a moan so deep it surprises us both.

“Fuck.” His voice is wrecked. “You’re so tight. You feel so fucking good.”

He holds still inside me, his arms braced on either side of my head, his chest heaving. I can feel him throbbing, the pulse of his heartbeat through the length of him, hot and insistent. He’s giving me time to adjust, which is considerate and also unnecessary because all I want is more.

“Move,” I tell him. “Move.”

He moves.

It’s not gentle. He warned me it wouldn’t be and he was right. His hips drive into mine with a force that pushes me up the bed, that shakes the headboard against the wall, that makes the mattress groan under the combined weight of our bodies. I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on. My nails dig into his back, into the muscle of his shoulders, and he growls, an actual growl that vibrates through his ribcage and into mine.

“Harder,” I say in a voice I don’t recognize. "Please, Dominic.”

He grips the headboard with one hand, bracing himself, and the other hand slides under my hip and tilts me up and the angle changes and he’s hitting a spot inside me that makes my vision white out. The sound of our bodies meeting fills my ears, wet and rhythmic, skin slapping against skin. His face is tight with effort and pleasure, and he’s never looked more beautiful to me than he does right now, wild and uncontrolled.