Page 93 of My Sweetest Agony
Proving that he’s in control of this and will do whatever the fuck he wants to me, how he wants it, while I’m spread out like this.
And I want to let him.
Because he’s demonstrated his expert skills where getting me off is concerned.
But if he doesn’t do something. If he doesn’t nudge me over that edge soon, I’m going to rip out his hair or tear a damn hole in this canvas.
As if sensing I’m reaching my breaking point in more ways than one, he shifts his hand off my thigh and plunges two fingers into me easily. The slick sound of them sinking in meets my low, throaty moan at finally having some part of him inside me.
It isn’t what I really want.
Not what I really need.
But my pussy still clenches around them, clasping and trying to keep them inside as he pumps them in time with his flicking across my clit.
My breath hitches. My fingers twine in his hair. My thighs tense. All in anticipation of what is about to come. I hover over the precipice. Where I can see the promised land. The place where all my fears and worries, all the reasons I have to be confused and angry just don’t exist.
It’s so close I can taste it—it tastes like Cam.
Rich.
Citrusy.
And when he drags my clit between his lips and sucks it in a relentless rhythm that matches his thrusts, I finally topple over that edge.
Instead of floating on that vast, empty sea, I’m now spiraling on top of the wave as it crests and then crashes down onto the shore, so violent I arch up even more off the canvas as he continues to suck me down. He drags my orgasm on and on and on. With his fingers. With his mouth. Until I’m left panting and begging for him to stop, my whole body thrumming and over-sensitive in a way that only follows a mind-blowing release.
He slowly lifts his head and licks his lips, then allows my thighs to slide down until my legs are sprawled out on the canvas. Trembling. Twitching. Completely at his mercy.
Which seems like a very dangerous place to be.
The unimaginable heat blazing across his eyes burns hotter than any fire I’ve ever seen, what I imagine the surface of the sun looks like up close, and as his gaze travels over me, it feels like being swallowed up by it. Like it’s branding my skin the same way the tattoos cover his.
Black and white paint streaks across his neck and in his hair—visual evidence of how completely out of control he made me with just his mouth and fingers.
He shoves his jeans down, freeing his hard cock.
My breath hitches again, watching it bob gently as he tugs off his pants and tosses them to the side.
“I haven’t been with anyone in over a year, Ivy.” His gaze turns hard. “Since before I went to rehab. And I’ve been tested and retested for everything under the sun and come back clear…” He takes his length in his hand and strokes it once, twice, a third time. “I need to feel your cunt without anything between us.”
Fuck.
How awful is it that I hadn’t even thought about that until this moment…
His dark brow furrows. “Can I do that, Ivy?” Still stroking his cock, he tilts his head, examining me on the canvas before he kneels back down between my legs and runs his free hand across one thigh, and then the other. “Can I fuck you bare and come deep inside you?”
Good fucking God…
There are things I should tell him about why I’m not worried about getting pregnant, but this isn’t the time or place to have that discussion. Not when his words, his stare, his hard, ready body are poised over me and mine is trembling to take him.
Fluttering and clasping at nothing when all I want is to feel him filling me.
I release a little gasp at the sensation of his fingertips along my hypersensitive skin and nod.
A slow grin spreads across his face, and his gaze sweeps over me again. “I wish I were a more talented artist so I could capture how fucking perfect you look right now. A truly breathtaking masterpiece…”
Instantly, I tear my eyes from him to scan all the paintings surrounding us in the room, and I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of his statement. “I think you’ve done a pretty good job.”
