Page 9 of His Orders

Her fingers find the buttons of my shirt, dragging lightly over the fabric.

“I’m sure about tonight,” she says simply. Then she rises onto her toes, her lips just a breath away from mine.

I drag her against me, my hands spanning her waist, fingers curling into the smooth fabric of her dress. She gasps, soft, surprised, before her arms loop around my neck, pulling me down into her.

Her breath is warm against my lips, her mouth already parted, waiting. My control hangs by a thread—thin, fraying—but the second I press my tongue past the seam of her lips, it snaps completely.

She gives in with a tiny moan, her body molding against mine as I claim her mouth without hesitation. My tongue strokes against hers, slow at first, coaxing, teasing, until she meets me with equal force. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s heat and hunger, a clash of mouths and breath and the kind of tension that’s been building for years.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scratching against my scalp, and I groan into her mouth. I tighten my grip on her waist, pressing her back against the wall, pinning her between my bodyand the cool surface. She arches into me, her hips shifting, her tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my pulse pound in my throat.

I angle her chin, deepening the kiss, drinking in the soft, breathless whimper she makes when I suck her bottom lip between my teeth. She tastes like whiskey and something sweeter, something uniquely her, and I want more. Need more.

I swallow her gasp as I take control, devouring her, my mouth moving with a punishing intensity that leaves no room for doubt—she is mine tonight. And she knows it.

She presses closer, and I walk her back, step by step, until she’s against the wall.

Her hands are everywhere—my shoulders, my chest, her fingers slipping under my shirt like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.

I nip at her bottom lip, just to hear her sharp inhale, just to watch her eyes darken.

“Still think I wouldn’t know what to do with you?” I murmur against her mouth.

She shivers, her nails pressing into my skin.

“Prove me wrong, Cross.”

3

IVY

The wall is cool against my back, but it does nothing to temper the fire raging through me. Ethan keeps me pinned, his hands firm at my waist, his body a wall of heat and dominance. His lips are still on mine, his tongue still stroking, claiming, but it’s not enough—not even close.

I’m intoxicated, drunk on him, on the way he kisses, on the sharp edge of control in his touch.

His mouth trails lower, skimming the line of my jaw, dragging down the column of my throat. He nips at my pulse point, laving his tongue over the spot until I’m gasping. His hands slide down, gripping the hem of my dress and shoving it up, exposing my thighs to the cool air. His fingers skim along my skin, slow, teasing, as he drops to his knees in front of me.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he presses his mouth against my inner thigh. “Ivy,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along my skin, “has anyone ever touched you the way you deserve?”

The question is low, a challenge laced with wicked amusement.

I swallow, my breathing ragged. “Yes.”

His fingers tighten, his green eyes snapping up to mine, dark and jealous. He drags his teeth along my thigh, his grip turning possessive. “No,” he drawls, drawing the word out like he is making a promise. “You have no idea what a man can do to you.”

And then, without another word, he bends.

His hands curl around the sides of my panties, but instead of pulling them down, his teeth graze the waistband, dragging them down inch by inch, the slowest kind of torture. My legs tremble as he eases them down my thighs, his fingers ghosting along my skin, his breath hot between my legs.

He presses a single kiss to my hip before his mouth trails lower.

And then he licks me with a long, slow stroke of his tongue against my clit that sends a sharp, electric shock through me. I gasp, my head thudding back against the wall, my fingers fisting in his hair. He hums against me, smug and knowing, before he does it again.

And again.

His tongue flicks, swirls, teases until I’m panting, writhing, my hips arching into his mouth, but he just chuckles against me, pinning me in place with strong hands. “So eager,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue in slow, maddening circles. “But I’m not done playing with you yet.”

I whimper, my fingers tightening in his hair, but he doesn’t let up. He keeps me on the edge, his tongue stroking, lapping at me, never enough, never letting me fall over. He watches me through hooded green eyes, a wicked smirk playing at his lips every time I shudder beneath him.

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