Page 61 of Ravaged
“Fuck, Miriam.” The rasped praise or plea empowers me. Though I’m kneeling before him and his hands are buried in my hair,I’mlevelinghim. “Sweetheart ...”
Again and again, I swallow as much of him as I’m able. And he’s a big man, so it’s impossible to take all of him, but from the way his huge body trembles and his muttered, guttural curses and encouragement, he loves it. And so do I. Every bit of it. His heaviness and taste in my mouth. His uninhibited surrender to me. His un-self-conscious show of his pleasure.
I crave it all. And more. I’m ravenous for everything Jordan has to give me.
“Sweetheart.” His grasp on my head tightens, though he doesn’t pull me free of him. “I’m about to come. Back off if you don’t want me to finish here.” He rubs a finger down the front of my throat.
I reply to this by tightening my fists on his cock and sucking him deeper. And with a gravel-roughened groan, he pumps into my mouth and, moments later, lets go. I take all of him, swallowing until he’s spent and his harsh breaths pound against my hair. Only then do I permit him to slip free from between my lips.
“You coming into my life wasn’t a mistake; it was fate. This between us”—I press a tender kiss to the base of his only slightly softened, damp flesh—“is hot, sometimes overwhelming, and a little scary but not a mistake. And you could never be one.”
As I speak, the haze of pleasure dissipates from his gaze, and it’s clear, sharp ... on fire.
He cups me under my arms and lifts me. In seconds, I’m sitting in his chair; my boots, jeans, and panties are gone, and he’s buried between my thighs.
Holy shit.
His tongue dives between my folds, licking a path that has a scream clawing its way free from my throat and echoing on the night air. I really hope his neighbors believe coyotes inhabit these mountains, or else they might call 911. And they wouldn’t be far off. I could die from the pleasure threatening to splinter me apart.
He palms my thighs, widening them, making room for his shoulders. And oh God, does he need the room. Because he pulls me up close like I’m his favorite meal and he’s about to enjoy every. Fucking. Bite. There’s nothing hesitant or exploratory about his mouth. He dines on me, devours me. It’s messy, wild, raw. It’s hot as hell. And I’m at his mercy. I can’t move, his big hands holding me still for this marauding.
I shake, one hand clutching the arm of the chair, and the other tangled in his long hair. He sucks, nips, laps at my flesh, his growls of pleasure vibrating through me. I glance down my body, and the sight of him, his mouth opened wide over me ... squirming, I cry out, teetering on the edge of a cataclysmic release. The pleasure drives me close to insanity, and when his lips close around my clit, flicking, circling, I almost believe I’ve lost my claim on reality.
“Jordan, please,” I beg. Because no, I’m not above it. Not when my belly cramps with the need to orgasm and sweat dampens my face and the pretty sweater I’m wearing. Not when a tremor ripples through my legs like an earthquake. “Jordan, I need it. Give it to me.Please.”
I don’t need to defineit. And he doesn’t ask.
But he does provide it.
He lifts two fingers to my mouth, and I eagerly open for him, swirling my tongue over and around the digits, wetting them. So lost in my task, I hardly realize my eyes are closed. Not until he slowly, so slowly withdraws them do I lift my lashes, and my gaze clashes with the blue fire in his.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, painting my lips with his damp fingertips. “Good girl.”
Then, without looking away, he lowers his arm and unerringly finds my entrance. And drives inside me. Strokes deep. Driving the breath from my lungs. I release a broken gasp and punch my hips up to take more. Demand more.
He breaks our visual connection and kisses a path back to my sex, his lips closing around my clit once more. He plays me, tonguing the engorged bundle of nerves and finger-fucking my core. And I’m his instrument, built, molded, and bent for his hands. And he draws the perfect melody from me. With a curl of his fingertips against a spot too high inside for me to reach without a toy, he shatters me.
I explode.
Right on that chair, I fragment and am left in pieces.
It’s pleasure, pain, relief, and so much more.
And it’s not enough.
My sex still spasms with the aftermath of my orgasm, and still, that burn isn’t completely extinguished. The ache hasn’t disappeared, hasn’t been assuaged.
Jordan cups my face, grazing his lips across my forehead, down the slope of my nose, over my temple.
“Are you still with me?” he asks, and though there’s an audible strain in his voice, it’s gentle, patient. Letting me know the decision to go forward or stop here is completely mine.
There is no decision to make.
“Yes.” I wind my arms around his neck, tunneling my fingers up into his hair, under his bun. “I don’t have condoms on me,” I whisper.
Something flickers in his eyes, there and gone before I can decipher it. But he brushes another caress over my cheekbone, his lashes lowering and hiding all emotion from me.
“I have some in the house.” His muscles bunch as he prepares to stand, but I tighten my hold on him, stalling his movement.
