Page 64 of Hunting Gianna

Her hands are curled into the blanket, gripping tight.

“You can tell me to stop,” I say.

She doesn’t. She just shivers.

I lean in, mouth at her ear. “Say what you want, Gianna.”

She’s silent for a minute, then quietly, “Don’t stop.”

It’s all I need.

I shift her on the couch, so she’s sprawled out, arms above her head, legs open for me. I shift between her knees, hands gliding over her thighs, kneading, stroking, claiming.

She whimpers when I squeeze the inside of her thigh, and I do it again, harder, just to watch the way her body arches.

“God, Knox,” she says, eyes half-shut, “you’re killing me.”

“That’s the point.”

I take her foot in my hand again, lift it to my mouth, and press a kiss to her ankle, then to the inside of her knee, then up, up, up. I kiss every bruise, every scratch, every place she’s broken.

She’s shaking by the time I get to the top of her thigh. Her hands are fisted in the blanket, white-knuckled.

“Relax,” I say, and massage her again, gentler this time, coaxing her muscles to let go.

She does. She lets go so completely I think she might float away.

I don’t let her.

I keep her right here, tethered to the earth by my hands.

This is mine. This is all I’ve ever wanted.

And I’m going to take my time with it.

Her body is pliable under my hands, all the sharp edges gone liquid. I watch her… the flush creeping up her chest, the slow roll of her throat when she tries to swallow her moans. I don’t touch my cock, but it’s throbbing, hard enough to hurt. Doesn’t matter. She comes first.

Always.

I put her knees on my shoulders, spreading her open. She makes a noise, half-protest, but I smother it with my mouth.

The first taste of her is sinful and sweat and something so fucking sweet I almost lose it. I drag my tongue slow, from the soft cleft at the top of her thigh to the slick heat between her lips. I take my time, mapping her out, learning what makes her buck, what makes her cry out.

She’s wild, squirming, trying to twist away from the pressure of my mouth. I clamp her hips in place, hands bruising into her skin, and keep going. I want to eat her alive. She’s divine.

My tongue circles her clit, gentle at first, just teasing. She shivers, nails digging into the couch cushion. When I suck it between my lips, she yelps—sharp and bright—and tries to close her legs. I won’t let her.

“Knox, fuck,” she gasps, voice strangled. “It’s too much—”

I ignore her, working her harder, faster, then slow again just to watch her squirm. She’s slick and swollen and perfect. I slip two fingers inside her, twist them up, and she damn near levitates off the couch.

Her eyes roll back, mouth falling open. I fuck her with my fingers, steady and deep, never letting up with my tongue. Her whole body goes rigid, then loose. She whimpers, breathless, a sound that’s all surrender and disbelief.

She comes once, then twice. The first is a tidal wave, the second a desperate, gasping aftershock. I don’t let up. I want her ruined, want her sobbing, want her to remember this every time she tries to come without me.

The third one breaks her. She screams, grabbing my hair and yanking, but I don’t stop until she’s slumped boneless, shaking, tears streaking her face.

Only then do I slow down, licking her clean with slow, careful strokes. I press soft kisses to her thighs, her stomach, the inside of her knee.

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