Page 13 of Let it Burn
Slow, torturous and addictive.
“Zeke—”
“Shhh.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’m not done seeing the way you fall apart for me. I want to feel every second of you breaking wide open.”
My head falls back, a desperate moan clawing out of my throat as he teases me over and over, sliding in just enough to make me ache and sob for more.
“You’re dripping, baby,” he whispers. “All over my cock, and I haven’t even started yet.”
His voice is low and rough, like he’s barely holding it together. Like he’s savoring the tension, the hunger, the promise of what comes next. I brace my hands against his chest, and he’s solid heat and muscle—hard everywhere. His pulse beats wildly under my palms, matching my own. He slides the tip against my slit again and again, teasing, circling, coating himself in the proof of just how ready I am.
My hips move on their own, chasing the friction, desperate for more. It feels like my pussy wants to suck him in, it’s throbbing so hard.
“Zeke…” I moan.
That one word cracks something open in him. He groans, hand tightening on my waist, guiding me exactly where he wants me—where we both want this to go. His mouth drops to my neck, grazing the skin there, and I feel him smile against me. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
And then—finally, finally—he starts to push forward.
Not fast. Not all at once. Just enough to make my head fall back and my breath stutter. Enough to make me feel every glorious inch of him, stretching me, claiming me, making good on every dirty promise in his eyes.
His thrusts deepen, slow and devastating, like he’s carving himself into me one inch at a time. Each movement is firm, controlled, and maddeningly perfect—like he’s set on making me feel every single stroke. My hands slide into his hair, gripping tight as I pant his name, needing him closer, deeper.
He groans, the sound feral and desperate, his mouth dragging down my neck, over my collarbone, like he can’t get enough. “You feel like heaven wrapped in sin,” he rasps, his pace picking up, slamming into me just a little harder, making the countertop creak beneath us. “So damn tight, baby. So wet. You were made for this. For me.”
And I am. I feel it in every thrust. Every moan. Every needy whimper he pulls from me.
His hand comes up to grip my jaw, tilting my face so he can kiss me hard, deep, filthy—like he’s claiming my mouth the same way he’s claiming the rest of me. His other hand grips my hip, holding me right where he wants me, guiding me against every stroke until the pressure coils tight in my belly, building to something wicked.
“Zeke,” I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. “I’m gonna—”
“I know, baby,” he growls. “Let go. Come for me. Soak my cock. Let me feel how much you need this.”
And when I do—when the orgasm crashes over me like a wave of heat and light—he’s right there with me, holding me together while I come completely undone. He thrusts through it, losing himself seconds later with a deep, guttural groan, his arms wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
When it’s over, we’re both gasping. Sweating. Clinging to each other in the quiet hum of morning, tangled on the counter with the scent of coffee still in the air and the sun painting gold across our skin.
His forehead presses to mine. His hand never leaves my waist.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now, Lena. You’re mine.”
And this time, I believe him.
I don’t know how long we stay like that—wrapped around each other on the counter, breathless and dazed. His hands stroke up and down my back in slow, soothing passes, like he’s trying to ease the storm he just set off in my body. His mouth brushes over my temple, then the corner of my lips, then lower, like he can’t stop touching, holding,being here.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, the rasp in his voice now soft instead of wild. “You okay?”
I nod against his chest. “More than okay.”
He smiles, and I feel it against my hair. He helps me down gently, lifting me off the counter like I’m something precious.
But when I reach for a kitchen towel, he stops me gently with a hand on my wrist.
“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.
Before I can say anything, he grabs the towel from me Then he kneels—kneels—in front of me. The air shifts. My heart lurches. No one’s ever done this before. No one’s ever looked at me like I’m worth this kind of reverence.
His big hands are gentle as he lifts my leg slightly, steadying me with a hand on my thigh, then carefully wipes between them. Cleaning me up. Slow and tender in a way that makes my eyes sting. His brows furrow with focus, like this is sacred. Like I’m sacred. He doesn’t speak, but his actions say everything.You matter. You deserve care. You’re mine now.
