Page 186 of Lost Then Found
She kisses me like she’s past pretending this is anything but filthy. It’s all tongue and pressure, her mouth slanting hard over mine, taking everything I give her and then some.
And then her hand slides between us.
She wraps her fingers around me with the kind of grip that makes my breath catch mid-kiss. It’s not tentative. Not soft. It’s certain. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Exactly how far she can push me.
Her palm moves once—slow and firm—dragging along the full lengthof me, and my hips buck before I can stop them. I groan into her mouth, raw and wrecked.
She pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing mine as her hand strokes me again. “That desperate already?”
Her thumb swipes the tip before trailing back down the underside, right along the nerve that makes me grunt and lock my jaw.
And she keeps going.
Long, steady pulls. Her wrist twisting just slightly at the end of each stroke. The sound of it—slick and filthy and close—is nearly drowned out by the harsh drag of my breath, the way it saws in and out of me like I’m losing my goddamn mind.
“Fuck,” I gasp into her mouth.
She hums like she enjoys the sound. Like she wants to hear what else she can pull out of me.
Her grip tightens, her pace still torturously slow. Wrist rolling just enough to make it feel like she’s pulling pleasure from the base of my spine. My whole body’s locked, trying not to move, not to come, not to beg.
She doesn’t rush. Her other hand starts to wander—skimming over my chest, dragging her nails lightly across my stomach, circling my ribs, teasing the edge of every place that makes me twitch. She traces the shape of my hip, the dip just above my thigh. I feel like I’m being dismantled, piece by piece.
Her voice is breath against my throat. “You’re holding on so tight. Why?”
I growl through gritted teeth, whole body straining toward hers. “Lark—Jesus—”
Her hand slows. Then stops.
I barely get a breath in before she eases off my lap, her touch gone like a snapped cord, and I nearly fall forward chasing it.
She steps back, eyes on me like I’m something she’s proud to have ruined.
Her boots come off first—slow, one at a time. The sound of them hitting the tile echoes, sharp and final. Then her fingers go to the button of herskirt. Pops it open like it’s nothing. The fabric drops in a whisper, pooling around her bare feet. And then she slips her panties down—thin, sheer, a soft lilac that looks sexy as fuck.
Her thighs glisten. Her skin’s flushed. She’s a goddamn mess. And she’s never looked more put together.
I shift in the chair, half-wild, needing to touch her, anchor her, get my hands on every inch of that slick, wrecked body—but I don’t move. Not unless she says.
She walks back toward me with slow steps and bends, her lips brushing mine—not a kiss, just a breath.
“You’ve been a good boy,” she whispers, fingers ghosting over my knee.
She doesn’t wait for permission—just spins around and climbs into my lap like it’s her damn throne.
Her back is to me, her knees planted. Her hands are braced my thighs as she hovers, the heat of her slick center brushing the tip of my cock, making me hiss through clenched teeth.
And then she sinks down.
Slow.
So fucking slow I feel every pulse of her, every muscle stretching to take me deeper. She doesn’t ease into it. She claims it. All of it. Inch by inch, until her ass is flush with my thighs and I’m so deep inside her I forget where I end and she begins.
A sound rips from her throat—sharp, almost pained—and her fingers dig into her own knees like she needs something to hold onto. Her head drops forward, shoulders tense.
She glances at me in the mirror. That same half-wild look in her eyes, pupils blown wide, mouth open like she can’t catch her breath.
“You can touch me now.”
