Page 12 of Let it Burn
And the way he says it? Like it’s fact, like it’s not even up for debate? That shyness dissolves into heat that pulses between my legs. Because this isn’t just sex. This is him worshipping me. Claiming me. Wanting every single inch of me.
His hands slide under my thighs, spreading them wider around his hips. “I want you so bad it hurts,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “But I’m not gonna rush this, Lena. I’m going to make you feel everything. Every single thing I’ve been dying to do to you.”
His mouth crashes into mine again—slower now, deeper—his tongue coaxing mine into a rhythm that’s all heat and promise. His hands trace down my back, fingers splayed, memorizing every curve. When he reaches the clasp of my bra, he pauses, his lips brushing my ear. “Tell me if I need to stop.”
“You better not,” I whisper, breathless.
He gives a low, dirty chuckle, full of male satisfaction. “Didn’t think so.”
With practiced ease, he unhooks my bra and peels it away, his eyes darkening as he takes me in. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples until I’m arching into him, a soft moan slipping free. “So fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “I could spend all day right here.”
Then his fingers trail lower, grazing over the thin waistband of my panties. I’m soaked. Trembling. Completely at his mercy. He presses a kiss to the hollow of my throat, then looks up at me through dark lashes, all heat and dominance. “You’re shaking.”
“I want you,” I whisper, voice barely a sound.
He groans, then slides one hand between my thighs, cupping me through the thin cotton. I cry out, hips jerking against his palm.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “So wet. So fucking sweet.”
He pushes my panties aside and sinks his fingers into me—slow, deep, relentless. His mouth finds mine again, kissing me with the kind of hunger that leaves no doubt—he wants every part of me. I cry out against his lips, louder than I mean to, but I can’t help it. The moan rips from my throat, raw and aching, as he curls his fingers just right, hitting that perfect spot that makes my legs shake. He groans, low and rough, like he loves hearing the sounds he’s pulling from me. And still, he doesn’t stop. Every stroke is deliberate, teasing, worshipful, like he’s mapping my body by memory. The kitchen fades away—the morning light, the scent of coffee, everything except his hand between my thighs and his voice in my ear whispering filthy, perfect things. “That’s it, Lena,” he rasps, lips trailing down my neck. “Let me hear you. I like my woman loud. Don’t hold back.” And I don’t. I moan again—louder this time, shameless and wanting—because I’m unraveling fast and hard, coming apart right there on the counter, with Zeke holding me through every second of it. My orgasm rips through my body. A powerful release.
His fingers are still inside me when I whisper, breathless, “I’m on the pill.”
His eyes flash—dark and feral, like I just gave him permission to completely lose control. But then he stills, hand splayed over my thigh, eyes locked on mine.
“I’m clean,” he rasps, voice thick with need. “And I swear to God, Lena… I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”
He pulls his fingers out slow—slick, deliberate—and brings them to his mouth, tasting me like I’m his favorite obsession. My breath catches. His jaw clenches as he groans, low and guttural.
“I need to feel you,” he says. He kicks his shoes off, then reaches for the button of his pants, fingers working fast, impatient. My breath stutters as he tugs them down his hips and steps free, his briefs doing nothing to hide how hard he is. And when those come off too—God help me—I can’t look away.
He’s big. Thick and hard.
Every inch of him screams power and pleasure, and for a second, I just stare, wide-eyed and aching. I want him inside of me more than anything.
Zeke sees it—the way I’m looking at him—and his mouth curves into a dark, wicked smile. “You gonna keep staring, baby,” he murmurs, stepping between my thighs again, “or are you gonna let me ruin you for real now?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
I’m too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
He steps between my thighs and grips my hips, dragging me closer to the edge of the counter. His cock is hot and thick against my inner thigh, and when he teases the tip along my entrance—just barely brushing—I nearly come undone again.
“Zeke…” My voice is already breaking.
He strokes along my slit, slow and sinful. Just the tip. In. Out. Barely.
But he doesn’t give in. Not yet. He does it again—rubbing himself against me, letting the head of his cock catch and pressright where I’m dripping. I buck against him, desperate, already panting, already losing my mind.
“You feel that?” he growls, voice wrecked. “That’s how soaked you are for me. You’re so fucking ready, Lena.”
And then—he pushes in. Just the tip.
I cry out.
And he pulls back.
Then pushes in again. Just the tip. Out. Again.
