Page 116 of Only Mine
“Only with you.” My fingers graze the inside of her elbow, then fall away again.
She stirs, and stirs, and stirs. I add liquid a ladle at a time, and every time I do, I make her wait for it.
Her breathing picks up. She’s so close to coming apart.
The risotto thickens. So does my dick.
Coming up behind her again, I press my hips into her bare ass so she can at last feel how hard she’s made me, giving her just enough friction to make her gasp.
The muscles in her arms go slack for a second, and she almost drops the spoon. I force her to keep going.
She’s trembling now. The straps of her apron are barely holding, and I can see the curve of her breast where the fabric gapes. I resist biting the soft, perfect flesh. With time, I’ll mark her everywhere that’s already been marked, so the next time she looks in the mirror, she’ll only think of me.
“Why aren’t you touching me?” she hisses, not even trying to keep her composure anymore.
“Because you’re not finished,” I say and kiss the back of her neck, tasting salt, heat, and the faintest trace of her perfume.
She whimpers. I know Wrenley hates that she made that sound, but she doesn’t stop. I take the wooden spoon from her hand and toss it in the sink, then spin her to face me.
Wrenley’s breathless. Her pupils swallow the gold.
She’s panting, eyes flicking between my mouth and myeyes. Wrenley Morgan wants to tackle me onto the tile, claw at my shirt, and rip me open, but she’s holding herself together by a frayed thread.
Time to snap it.
I palm her jaw, thumb pressing just hard enough to make her mouth open.
“On your knees, Wrenley.”
She sinks down slowly.
The tile is cold, her knees are bare, and the air is electric. I stand above her, hands steady at my sides, and wait.
Wrenley looks up, eyes wild and wet.
“Now what?” she asks, her voice as fragile as new skin.
I brush a strand of hair from her face.
“You want to touch me?” I ask.
She nods, desperate.
“Not yet.”
I stand and unbutton my shirt, slow enough that her hands twitch toward me before she thinks better of it. I let my fingers run down the line of buttons, then shrug it off. Her gaze follows every move, starved.
“You can look,” I say. “But you don’t get to touch until I say.”
She licks her lips, chest rising and falling so fast I worry she might hyperventilate.
I reach for her chin and tilt her head back. “Open.”
She obeys. I slide two fingers between her lips, not gentle. She moans and bites down, just a little, then sucks. I leave them there, watching her eyes go glassy.
“Good,” I say. “You’re learning.”
I withdraw, tracing her mouth with my wet thumb, and she makes a noise that’s half protest, half plea.
