Page 92 of Make Me Yours
He drags it along the seam of my body, featherlight and maddeningly slow, never pushing in. His lips lift into the faintest smile, as if he’s reading every thought that flickers through my head.
“Do you feel that?” he murmurs, dragging the smooth end over my most sensitive flesh.
I nod, unable to speak.
When my hips shift helplessly toward the sensation, the cigar disappears.
My breath catches as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a puff.
“Fuck,” he says hoarsely. “You taste like honey.”
I shake.
And when the cigar returns to my skin, I nearly sob.
He strokes it along my lower lips again, teasing and coaxing. Circling. Painting my arousal across my own flesh. It’s too much and not enough.
And then he eases it inside me just a couple of inches. Just enough to make my entire body jerk.
But only for a moment.
Then he pulls back and circles my clit with maddening precision, driving me higher with every pass.
I can’t think.
Can’t breathe.
My hips lift and my back arches as my body silently asks for more.
And when I whisper his name again, my tone pleading and begging, he groans.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Completely undone. Just for me.”
I whimper in response.
“You know how hard I am right now?” he asks roughly. “All because of you. The way you look. The way you taste. The way you beg for my touch.”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I moan, desperate and aching.
“Tell me,” he says, circling my clit again. “How badly do you want to come?”
“More than anything,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Please, Steele.”
He dips the cigar inside me again, once and then twice.
My body rises off the glass in desperation. “Please,” I sob. “I need… please?—”
“Good girl,” he whispers, and that’s all it takes for the world to shatter.
Pleasure slams into me like a tidal wave, knocking the air from my lungs. My thighs quake, and I cry out, unable to stop the onslaught of sensation. Never once does he move or let up. He strokes me gently with the cigar, dragging every last tremor from my body until I’m a shaking, wrung-out mess.
My chest heaves.
“Come here, Lilah.”
On legs that barely hold me, I rise from the table and wobble toward him. The room tilts, and I grab the couch for balance.
He remains seated with his legs spread. When I stop between them, he looks up at me with eyes that are heavy-lidded, dark, and full of hunger.
