Page 24 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
Ruby
Iprop myself up on one elbow. I’m sure my hair is blown out wild. Hopefully, my grin tells Beckett I’m plotting the next round. “I always work for it,” I tell him. I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke him slowly, thumb teasing along the head. His body answers without hesitation.
Beckett watches me with a seductive smile. I run my palm down the thick shaft, feel blood surge under my hand, and he’s already getting long and hard again. God, I love a man who responds to me like this. I want to see how far I can push him before he takes control back. I want to test my own limits, too.
I shift down the bed, swinging my hair over one shoulder, planting a kiss right at the base of his cock. Beckett groans. Ilick a slow line up the vein, swirl around the head, and he jerks upward, trying not to thrust. I glance up at him, let my tongue flick the tip, and watch his jaw clench.
“You’re evil,” he says, but it sounds like he likes it.
“Not evil.” I flatten my tongue and drag my tongue down his length, all the way to my fist, before letting him slip from my lips with a soft pop. “Just insatiable,” I purr.
I grip his hips, hands bracing for leverage. Beckett is so big, so solid, that even when he tries to hold still, I can feel him vibrating under my touch, every muscle drawn tight. I lick, I suck, I take him deeper, moaning a little just to feel the vibration echo up his spine. He lets out a sound and his head drops back, exposing the clean line of his throat, and his hands fist in my hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life. I stroke him with both hands, twisting at the head, and swirl my tongue around the soft ridge.
“Fuck, Ruby,” he grits out, low and torn and a vein throbs in his neck, visible even in this subdued light. The power it gives me is dizzying … a man this strong, this self-contained, coming apart because of what I’m doing to him. I want more. I want him wrecked for me.
I take him deeper, feeling the stretch at my lips, sucking hard enough to make his hips jump. I use my tongue, greedy and relentless, painting circles around the tip, then flattening the length of him and swallowing him down, letting my throat clench and flutter until he curses, voice gone raw.
“Fuck, you’re … Ruby, I can’t …”
I smile around him, and he feels it. I let him slip from my mouth, stroking him with my hand while I catch my breath. “Yes, you can,” I tell him, voice gone husky. “You can take it. I want to see you lose it.”
He’s shaking his head, blue/gray eyes wild and gone utterly dark. “You’re dangerous.”
“Not half as dangerous as you,” I whisper, and then I suck him down, all the way this time, until I feel the weight of him pressing against my tongue, the tip nudging the back of my throat. Beckett’s hands tighten in my hair. He’s not thrusting, not forcing, but I can feel how hard he’s fighting to keep control. His abs are clenched, breath coming in short, harsh pants. I hollow my cheeks, let him feel the suction, and he shudders, whole body drawn so tight I wonder if he’ll break. He’s silent for a moment, then he grits out a sound that’s pure desperation, a plea and a warning all at once. He’s close. I feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his hands flex at my scalp, the low, helpless growl rumbling out of him.
I want to give this to him. I want to know what the quietest man I’ve ever met sounds like when he finally lets go.
I keep going, relentless, dragging my lips up and down his shaft, tongue teasing at every sensitive place I’ve already mapped. I use my hand to twist and stroke at the base, and when I pull back to the head, I flick my tongue under the rim, gentle at first, then mean, then gentle again. Beckett’s breathing is ragged, each inhale a fight for composure; I know I’m winning, and it’s ravenous and addictive.
He groans, voice breaking, and his hips jerk up for the first time, instinct taking over. I take him deep, as deep as I can, and swallow, and that’s what unravels him. I feel the first pulse, then another, and his whole body goes rigid. Beckett lets out a wordless sound. I keep my mouth on him, let him come undone for me.
He tastes like salt and heat, and I take as much as I can, swallowing him down and letting the rest slick my lips and chin. I feel obscene, and perfect, and lit from within, a satisfied, dizzy bundle of nerves. I look up at him with my mouth still full of him. The way Beckett looks at me is pure devastation.
I lick my lips, wipe my chin with the back of my hand, and smile up at him, victorious. He’s beautiful like this … panting, unable to form a single coherent thought.
When I crawl back up the bed, Beckett grabs me, flips me under him, and kisses me like a man unhinged. His tongue is wild, desperate, tasting his own salt slick on my lips. I moan into his mouth, hips grinding against him, already greedy for more. His hands are everywhere—my breasts, my waist, my thighs—like he’s reminding himself I’m real, I’m his, I’m here.
He pins my wrists over my head and bites down on my neck, hard enough to leave a mark, and I gasp, thighs falling open. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Ruby,” he rasps, voice still ruined from coming. “You know what happens to girls who tease the wolf?”
I arch my back, letting him see how much I want this. “They get eaten alive?”
He grins, savage and slow. “Exactly.”
He slides down my body, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses. He spends forever at my breasts, circling my nipples with his tongue until I’m shaking, then biting, then soothing the sting with a gentle suck. I whimper, arching into his mouth. I’m shaking already, the want so sharp I almost hate him for it. He knows exactly how to make my body beg, how to draw it out just long enough that I forget about teasing, forget about everything except the desperate, melting need for more.
Beckett slides lower, mouth hot on my stomach, my hip, my inner thigh. My skin is hypersensitive, every nerve ending an exposed wire. I can feel the shape of his breath, the scratch of his beard, the scrape of his teeth — all of it building, winding, ratcheting my need to an impossible pitch.
When he finally kisses between my legs, his tongue is gentle at first—a careful, almost reverent sweep up my slit—and my whole body bows off the bed. He flattens his tongue,licking slow and deep, and I can’t help the sound that rips from my chest. I fist the sheets, legs trembling, as Beckett palms my thighs and pushes them wide, wide, like he wants to see absolutely everything. He groans, low and dirty, and I feel it in my bones.
“I don’t know if I can …” I start. I question whether I have another orgasm in me.
Beckett looks at me and smiles. “Let’s use the Santa’s little helper tool.”
He reaches for the vibrator and I hear it turn on. Immediately, he places it directly on my clit. Then he takes his fingers, at least two of them and thrusts them in and out of me slowly, building rhythm and steam.
He works me over, slow and patient at first, then ruthless, relentless, circling my clit with the vibe. I’m at the begging point. All of the sensation is too much, but not enough. When he has me right on the edge, my legs convulsing, he removes the vibe and uses his tongue. The scratch of his stubble, the heat of his tongue, the perfect, evil pressure of his lips on the exact right spot … it’s overwhelming. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I want to tell him to stop, to never stop.
Beckett knows it, too. He keeps me right at the edge for so long I nearly sob. He loves it — relishes it, even — and when I finally scream his name, coming so hard the world blurs, he doesn’t stop. He keeps me there, tongue unrelenting, milking every last spasm from my body until I’m a mess of nerves and tears and laughter.
