Page 87 of The Overtime Kiss

He dips his face to mine once more, tugging on my lower lip with his teeth, then letting go. “Want me to find out what you want?”

“Yes,” I say, trembling, gasping.

After sliding a thumb down my jawline to the corner of my mouth, he presses, parting my lips for him. And I gasp.

My breath stutters. But he doesn’t rush. He just watches my lips fall open around his thumb. Like he’s testing me. Like he wants to see if I’ll beg.

I don’t.

Not yet.

I might not have much experience, but I’m good at listening to my body. Knowing what it needs and wants. Rightnow, my body says it wants to be wound higher. I want him to push me, to make everything feel excruciatingly good.

“Tell me more,” he urges, coaxing my mouth open, pushing his thumb inside. “Like, does this feel good?”

I had no idea this would be such a turn-on. I wriggle against him, then nod. “Yes,” I say around his thumb. He slides it farther inside my mouth, slow and seductive, a simulation of how he wants to fuck me.

A promise of later.

Controlling. Purposeful. A man who knows how to use all his equipment.

He lets his thumb fall from my mouth and runs it down my throat, over my chest, before sliding that hand up and inside my shirt, against my skin, toward my tits. Then he squeezes—hard. “This? Does this feel good?”

I shudder, my mind flashing bright neon. “Yes,” I say, arching my back.

Tyler rumbles out a raspy, “Good.”

Threading his fingers into my hair, he tugs my head back, exposing my neck. More kisses, more touches, then more words as he says, “Tell me something.”

“Anything.” A flush races up my throat, impossibly warm.

“Do you picture coming on my face?”

The sound I make is animalistic. Like a cat in heat.

His smirk is satisfied. Too confident. As if he already knows what I do alone in the dark. And maybe that should embarrass me, but it doesn’t. It makes me reckless.

“You think I picture it?” I challenge, curling my fingers into his shoulders. I haven’t technically said yes. I’ve just groaned. “Or you just want me to say it?”

He leans his face closer to mine. “You don’t have to say it.”

I swallow past the heat surging everywhere in me. “Why?”

“Because I know it. I know you do because of the way you look at me,” he says, with a confidence that electrifies mybody, my soul. “The way you’ve looked at me since that day here on your yoga mat when I was this close to burying my face between your pretty thighs. This close to tasting your sweetness. This close to learning if you’re as wet and hot and fucking delicious as I imagine you are right now.”

I’m wetter. Hotter. Greedier.

Electricity crackles in me as I grind right back against his cock. He’s right. I don’t have to say I picture that. Because he clearly knows it. But still, I ask, “Can you feel me right now? How much I want it?”

I’m only wearing leggings. He’s wearing his suit pants still. And I’m soaked. Can he tell? I need to know.

His answer is a nod and a growl. “You bet I fucking can.” His hazel eyes are midnight as his gaze rolls over me like a heat wave. “And you need to know something, Sabrina.”

“Yes?” I ask, desperate for whatever he has to tell me, whatever he plans to do.

He levels me with a dark, feral stare, as if he’s making sure I’m focusing on him. “I picture you coming on my face,” he grits out. “All the fucking time.”

My belly coils, low and tight. A pulse beats between my legs.

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