Page 8 of Blood Orange Christmas
“Feed me again,” I say, and I don’t recognize my own hunger.
He takes another slice, brushes it against my bottom lip until the juice drips down my chin. He licks it off with a growl that makes my stomach clench. His hand slides under my shirt, palm hot against my ribs, thumb grazing the side of my breast. I arch, shameless.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“You’re watching,” I throw back. “Touch me properly.”
His answering laugh is a dark rumble. He drags his mouth down my neck, teeth scraping, while his fingers slip under the lace of my bra. When he pinches, I gasp, and he bites the hollow of my throat like he wants to mark it.
“Say my name,” he orders.
“Dante.” My voice breaks on it.
“Again.”
“Dante.”
He takes another piece of orange, but this time he presses it between my breasts, juice slicking my skin. His tongue follows, hot and greedy, and I hear myself moan like I’ve forgotten anyone else could ever hear me.
“You taste better than anything I’ve put in my mouth,” he growls, lifting his head just enough to look me dead in the eye.
I grab his hair, pull him back down. “Then don’t stop.”
His mouth trails lower, over the sticky trail of juice, down to where my shirt is already rucked up against my ribs. His tongue dips beneath the lace edge of my bra, catching another drop before it can slip lower.
“Dante.” My head tips back, hair tangling against the cool marble. “You’re making a mess of me.”
He looks up at me from under his lashes, wicked as sin. “That’s the point.”
He palms my breast through the lace, squeezes hard enough to make me gasp, then flicks his thumb over my nipple until it’s peaking, straining against the fabric. “You want me to touch you properly? Then lose this.” His fingers tug at the bra strap, sharp and commanding.
I wriggle out of it with his help, the straps sliding down my arms like surrender. The air is cool on my bare skin, but his mouth is hotter and he closes over my nipple, sucking hard, groaning like he’s starved. “Jesu—oh, God.” I fist his hair, arching into the wet pull of his mouth.
“Say it again.” He bites lightly, enough to make me jolt. “Say my name.”
“Dante. Please.”
He smiles against my skin, smug bastard, and reaches for the plate again. A smear of blood-orange juice glistens across his fingers as he presses the slice directly against my nipple, the cold sting making me cry out. Before I can recover, his tongueis there, hot, rough, licking the juice away until I’m trembling, sticky, desperate. “You taste like dessert. Sweet, messy, fucking addictive,” he growls, moving lower, kissing between my breasts and down my stomach.
His fingers snap open the button of my jeans. “Take them off,” I pant.
“Oh, I will.” His voice is molten. He drags the zipper slowly, like he wants me shaking apart just from the sound. My jeans slide down my thighs with his help, my panties already damp and clinging. He noses against the thin cotton, breath hot.
“Wet for me already,” he says, voice dark velvet. “Open for me, Serena.”
I spread my legs without thinking, desperate. He hooks his thumbs in the band of my panties, pulls them down, and the cold hits me and finds me bare, slick, aching. “Fuck, look at you.” His tongue darts out to taste me once, a slow, cruel lick over my folds that makes me choke on a moan. “You’re dripping for me. Say you want my mouth. Say it.”
“Dante—please—eat me. Don’t stop.”
His laugh is rough, hungry. “That’s all I needed to hear.” And then his mouth is on me, tongue working me open, sucking, lapping like he wants to drown in my taste. My thighs shake around his head, my hands clawing at the marble just to hold myself together as he devours me.
His mouth is relentless, tongue stroking deep, lips sucking at my clit until I’m thrashing against the marble, biting my own hand to muffle the sounds. He growls at that, pulls my hand away, pins it flat again.
“Let me hear you.” His voice is ruined, muffled against me, then he licks harder, faster. His teeth graze, and I come undone.
The orgasm rips through me, sharp and hot, my body clenching around nothing while I cry his name like a prayer. He doesn’t stop—he eats me through it, drinking every shiver, every drop, until I’m shaking so badly I have to shove at his shoulders.
“Dante, enough.”
