Page 49 of Playing it Safe

His fingers find my center again, and he licks his lips. “Shhh.”

His breath hits me first. Warm, close. His thumbs press into the crease where my thighs meet my hips, and he silently takes in every inch of me. All of me. Spread open and swollen and still wet from his fingers and whatever shameless mess my body has made.

I want to close my legs. The reflex is instant — hide, cover, apologize for being too much, too big, too slow, too everything. My ex made me feel like foreplay was a chore. A task he'd attempt with visible reluctance before giving up.

Cameron doesn't look reluctant. Cameron looks ravenous.

"You have no idea how good you look right now," he says, his voice so low it vibrates through the mattress. That accent. Every consonant softened, every vowel stretched. "I've been thinking about tasting you since the night you ground your ass against me at that club. When you came into my bed that night, I could smell you on my sheets. I was so hard for you, Briar.”

He lowers his mouth, and I stop thinking.

The first touch of his tongue is slow. Exploratory. He licks a long, flat stripe through me and groans against my body like he's the one receiving pleasure. I grab the sheets.

"Oh, my god."

He does it again. And again. Slow, thorough, learning me. His tongue finds the spot that makes my hips jerk, and he stays there, circling. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and the strength in his fingers — god, the strength. He's holding me like I'm not going anywhere, with my thighs spread wide, my knees bent, and my hands buried in his beautiful hair. I want to live on this bed.

"That's it," he murmurs against me, and the vibration of his voice makes me whimper. "Give me all of it, Briar. I want every sound you make."

I give him noises I didn't know I could produce. His tongue works me with a patience that borders on cruel — building the pressure, easing off, building again. He adds a finger, then two, curling inside me while his mouth stays fixed on my clit, and I feel the orgasm gathering like a wave I can see coming from miles away.

"Cameron — I'm going to —"

“Yeah, you are. You’re gonna come, aren’t you, beautiful?” He doesn't stop. He seals his mouth around me and sucks, and his fingers curl upward, and everything in my body goes white-hot and silent for one suspended second before I shatter.

This orgasm is different from the first. Deeper. It rolls through me in sparks that won't stop, and Cameron stays with me through every burst, his tongue gentling but never leaving, his hands steady on my thighs while I shake apart around him.

When I come back to myself, I'm gripping his hair. He looks up at me from between my legs, mouth glistening, expression wicked, and he smiles. That crooked half smile that has been destroying me since the first night he walked me to my door.

I laugh. It's breathless and half-hysterical. I pull at his shoulders. "Come here."

He crawls up my body, and I taste myself on his mouth when he kisses me. It should be strange. It isn't. It's intimate in a way that makes my throat tight — this man put his mouth on the most vulnerable part of me, made me come twice, and now he's kissing me with the evidence of it. I have never, ever felt more whole.

He's hard against my thigh. I can feel the pent-up need vibrating through his body, screaming for release. He's been holding himself at the edge for me. The way he held the stopwatch. Cameron Miller's entire life is an exercise in restraint, and I'm done letting him hold back.

I push against his chest. He resists for a second — instinct, maybe, the reluctance to stop touching me —then he lets me roll him. His back hits the mattress, and I straddle him. His hands land on my hips, and his eyes go wide. "Briar —"

"My turn." I press my palms flat against his chest, right over the tattoos. The map of his heritage is inked into his skin. I feel his heart slamming under my hands.

I skate my palm down to where his cock throbs between us. He's big. I knew that — I watched him on the guest bed, I felt him against me through clothes — but the reality of him beneath me, hard and thick and straining, makes my breath catch. I lift up on my knees and reach between us and wrap my hand around him and his whole body shudders.

"Jesus, Briar." His grip tightens on my hips.

I stroke him, pumping my hand along the heat of him, like velvet stretched over iron. “This is going to be fun,” I say, cracking a grin. He’s too far gone to be playful, though, and this poor man has waited long enough.

I adjust my body so I can feel the smooth head of his cock slipping through the wetness he drew out of me, and I hold his eyes as I lower my body onto him.

His jaw clenches. His hands flex against my hips. He's fighting himself — I can see it, the war between chivalry and an unhinged sex demon.

"Let go," I tell him. The same words he said to me. "You deserve this, too."

I sink down onto him. The stretch is slow, and I gasp at his size, at how my body has to open to take him. His hands grip my hips hard enough to leave marks. But I want them. I want every bruise. I want evidence that this happened.

"Fuck." His voice cracks. His head tilts back against the pillow, the tendons in his neck straining, and he looks like he's in pain, except it's the opposite. It's a man feeling something so intense he doesn't have a container for it. "Briar. God. You feel —"

"Tell me." I roll my hips. We both groan. "Tell me how I feel."

"Like everything." The accent is gone. The filter is gone. He's just Cameron, raw and open, beneath me. "Like the only thing that's ever felt right."