Page 61 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Because there are two kinds of people in this world: those who play games for attention and those who don’t need to, because they’re walking out of the park with Edgar Templeton’shand on their ass and a kiss like a promise still burning on their lips.

Chapter Twenty-One

Edgar

The door clicks shut behind us, and I lock it without taking my eyes off her. The air shifts. No more pretending this wasn’t inevitable. The silk-thread tension I’ve kept wound tight all evening thrums at the base of my spine.

She’s still wearing that dress that clung to her like it had intentions. I wanted to drag her into the bathroom at the restaurant, bend her over the sink and make her sob, but I didn’t. Because I wanted this. Now. When I could take my time. When I could make it mean something.

“I want to show you something,” I say, voice lower than it’s been all night.

She tilts her head at me, curious, just the faintest edge of nerves sparking in her eyes. Not fear. Anticipation.

I brush her hair back behind her ear and ask, “You trust me, don’t you?”

She nods, chest rising like her lungs are preparing for something far more serious than breath.

I move to the sideboard and retrieve the silk tie I’d stashed there earlier, navy blue, smooth as water. I keep my gaze on her as I loop it in my hands. “I want to take something away,” I tell her, stepping close, “so the rest of you can feel more.”

She reacts first with nerves, then intent. A shiver, then a lean, a beautiful contradiction I’ll never stop wanting to witness.

I press a kiss to her forehead, a quiet thank you, then gently blindfold her.

God, she’s gorgeous. Stripped of vision, she stands taller, instinct sharpening. I can see her chest rise and fall faster. Every part of her already more sensitive.

“You look perfect like this,” I say against her ear. “Do you know that? You look like surrender.”

A soft whimper answers me, and I want to devour it.

I lead her to the bedroom with a steady hand at her lower back, coaxing her down to sit at the edge of the bed. My voice stays low, warm with promise. “Hands at your sides. No thinking. Just feel.”

She nods and that simple gesture, small, obedient, strips me to the bone with all the grace of a caress. I feel it in my cock before my chest.

I start at her ankles, brushing my thumbs over bone and skin, slow enough to be cruel. Up her calves, behind her knees, places most men forget to worship.

By the time I reach her thighs, she’s breathing harder.

I pause. Let it stretch, let the wanting crawl higher. Then I part her, firm and unhurried, like I’m unfolding silk with secrets inside.

I kiss her knee. Then higher. Then higher.

When I finally press my mouth to her through the fabric of her underwear, she gasps, head tipping back, hands fisting the sheets. I hum against her, letting her feel the want in me. The gratitude.

She tastes like the end of every good thing.

I hook my fingers in her panties, and slide them down, then off. I kiss her inner thigh, just above the bend. A silent vow.

Her scent hits me first. Clean and dark and dizzying. Her sounds come next, those soft, stifled little gasps when my tongue finds rhythm, when I suck just enough to tease. I groan into her, not because I’m losing control, because I choose to let her feel how deeply I want this.

And then she says it.

“Edgar… oh, fuck, that feels so good.”

I answer with more tongue, more pressure, one thick finger sliding inside her slowly, and she cries out.

“Just like that,” I growl. “God, you’re so responsive, fuck, I love how you open for me.”

She comes with a shattered sound, thighs trembling against my shoulders. I don’t stop. Not until she begs. Not until I’m sure she’s wrung dry.

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