Page 31 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Eventually, he leans in, hand brushing my lower back, fingers lingering.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs near my ear, voice low and laced with heat.

A shiver dances down my spine, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “Told you,” I say, trying to sound composed, but my voice already betrays me—just slightly breathless.

His hand slides lower, fingertips grazing the soft skin of my inner thigh beneath the robe, slow and careful, like he’s savoring every inch. My breath catches. I tense, pulse jumping wildly in my throat. Then he does it—his fingers tug at the silk belt, and the robe slips apart, falling open like it knows exactly what’s coming.

I’m bare underneath. No bra. No panties. Just me—exposed to the cool air and the inferno in his stare.

One of his hands drifts upward, lightly tracing the curve of my breast. His thumb traces the shape of my breasts and slowly reach my nipple, teasing it into a tight peak before pinching it between his fingers. I gasp—sharp, raw, unable to stop myself. My breasts aches beneath his touch.

The other hand glides back down, grazing my thigh, teasing the skin just shy of where I need him. My whole body leans into him like it’s not mine anymore, like it belongs to him and only him.

“You need to focus,” he says, voice dark and thick, though his smirk tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Maybe I will. If you stop distracting me,” I breathe, already trembling.

His response is a low, dangerous chuckle.

Then his fingers dip between my thighs—no underwear to stop him, no barrier between his touch and the soaked heat he finds. He parts me with practiced ease, and when he slides a single thick finger inside, it’s unhurried, the stretch immediate and impossible to ignore. My gasp bursts out before I can catch it—sharp and loud, my head falling back as my hips twitch forward.

He chuckles darkly, voice thick and full of want. “So fucking wet,” he groans, thrusting shallowly. “Dripping for me already. You needy little thing.”

I feel filthy and feral and absolutely helpless to the way his touch owns every nerve in my body. His thumb finds my clit, circling with maddening pressure, the contrast of slow strokes inside me and tight rhythm outside sending my nerves into a tailspin.

“I should be fucking embarrassed,” I whisper, my face hot with the thought of how exposed I am, sitting in his lap with my robe pooled around my hips and his fingers inside me.

But I’m not. I’m fucking thrilled.

“No,” he murmurs. “You look perfect like this. Desperate. Open.”

His second finger joins the first, and I bite my lip hard, breath punching out of me as he begins to move them in slow, relentless strokes.

“You like when I do this, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “When I fuck you with my fingers until you forget your own name.”

I hesitate at first, lips parting but no sound coming. Pride tries to hold the words back, but the way he moves inside me—precise, deep, devastating—makes it impossible to keep pretending. My body arches into his touch, surrendering piece by piece.

“Fuck… Lazaro…” I gasp, barely able to hold it in anymore. My resistance crumbles, and the truth spills out in a ragged breath. “God, yes.”

My hips grind into his palm, chasing the pressure, desperate for more now that I’ve given in.

He shifts slightly, angling his hand just right, and my back arches off his chest as he hits that spot inside me.

“Right there—fuck, don’t stop—”

He groans into my neck, his free hand sliding up my body, palming my breast again, fingers toying with my nipple while his mouth finds the spot beneath my ear.

“You’re so fucking tight around my fingers,” he whispers. “Bet you’d feel even better around my cock.”

“Then why the fuck are you still teasing?” I pant, clawing at his wrist.

His laugh is low and filthy.

"Not yet, Calla. That’s for another time. Right now, I just want to watch you fall apart on my fingers—feel you soaking me, shaking for me. Come on, show me how desperate you are."

His pace quickens, the wet, obscene sound of his fingers moving inside me filling the room, mixing with the sharp gasp that escapes me. I can’t stop grinding against him—against his palm, his thigh, everything. I know I’m seconds from coming apart.

“Don’t be loud,” he growls against my throat, hand suddenly clamping over my mouth. “Anyone could hear how filthy you are.”

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