Page 15 of Sugar for the Mountain Man
He ignores it, continuing his leisurely path, switching to the other thigh, planting kisses that feel like promises. The fire crackles, the only other sound besides my shaky breaths.
“Wesley,” I gasp, a plea pulled from my lips.
His eyes flick up to mine before a final, soft kiss lands just at the junction of my thigh, and then, finally, his breath ghosts over my damp, aching flesh.
The first touch of his tongue is a flat, slow, experimental stroke from bottom to top.
A sound rips from me, half-sob, half-sigh. My eyes flutter shut as I bask in the pleasure.
“Eyes on me,” he repeats, his voice a low thrum against my most sensitive skin. He doesn’t continue, not until I follow along.
I force them open, my vision blurry. He watches me as he does it again, that same agonizing pace of his. The intensity of his gaze, combined with the intimate caress, only amplifies the sensation.
He settles into a rhythm, his tongue exploring every fold, every hidden secret, with a focused, unhurried curiosity. He circles my clit but doesn’t linger, teasing the swollen flesh around it until I’m whimpering, my back arched off the floor. My hands leave the rug and find his hair again, not guiding, just holding on.
“Please,” I beg, the word stripped of all pride.
No more teasing.I don’t know how much more I can take.
As if he were only waiting for the surrender in my voice, his focus shifts. He closes his mouth over my clit, and his tongue finds a perfect, relentless rhythm. It’s not frantic; it’s assured, a steady, circling pressure that coils the tension inside me tighter and tighter.
One of his hands slides from my thigh, his thumb joining as well, stroking and pressing in a way that makes my body sing.
I am hurtling towards the edge, the corners of my vision starting to grow brighter. My thighs tremble against his shoulders, and I try to close them, overwhelmed, but he holds me open, his grip firm, unyielding.
“Let go, Maribel,” he murmurs against me, the vibration tipping me further. “I have you. Let go for me.”
It’s the permission I didn’t know I needed. The coil snaps. A wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy crashes over me, so roughly it’s almost painful. I cry out, my body bowing off the rug, my vision whiting out.
He doesn’t stop, his tongue gentling, lapping at me, drawing out the shudders until I am a boneless, trembling wreck, gasping for air.
Slowly, he lifts his head. His lips are slick, his chin glistening. The look in his eyes is one of complete satisfaction. He moves up my body, his weight helping me float back to earth. He kisses my stomach, my sternum, the hollow of my throat, everywhere he possibly can
“Mine,” he whispers into my skin, and in the aftermath, I can only believe it. Iamhis.
His hand moves, sliding down his own body, and he palms himself through the rough denim of his jeans, a rough, grinding pressure.
The look on his face—he’s lost in the taste of me, and I know that he isn’t going to worry about his own state. He’s satisfied with bringing me to the edge with his mouth and letting his own pleasure be an afterthought.
I can’t let that happen.
The thought gives me a surge of strength. I push up onto my elbows, my body trembling. Reaching for him, my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and I pull him down to me.
I don’t go for his lips first. I kiss the sharp line of his jaw, rough with stubble. Then I find his ear, my breath a hot, desperate whisper against the sensitive shell. “I want you inside me,” I breathe, the words feeling both brazen and utterly true. “There’s nothing I want more.”
A guttural sound rips from his throat. A growl, like this mountain is already changing him and turning him into some kind of animal.
If his tongue hadn’t already done a great job at preparing me, then that one noise would’ve done the job.
I don’t have to tell him twice. Wanting to please, he claws to free himself.
My breath catches instantly.
He wraps his fingers around himself, and the sight is so hot, it’s a miracle I don’t catch fire.
He’s thick and hard, the skin stretched taut. A web of prominent, pulsing veins runs the length of his shaft, a visible, throbbing map of his arousal. My eyes are drawn helplessly to the tip, flushed a deep, angry red and gleaming with a single bead of moisture that threatens to spill over. He gives himself a single stroke, spreading the slickness, and a low groan rumbles in his chest.
Nudging himself between my thighs once more, he makes just enough room before he’s nudging my clit with the tip. So sensitive, I lift automatically, just as he expects me to.
