And I was nothing without my control.
Or so I assumed, having never released my grip on it after the singular, epic failure that had destroyed my relationship with Ash.
I certainly wasn’t going to lose it tonight because of a woman, no matter how she danced or what she did with her talented mouth.
She stopped before me, there in the middle of the suite’s great room. There were wide, inviting sofas all around, and handy side tables, but no inconvenient coffee table perched on the soft rug in the center. Nothing to work around.
I didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, and that, too, was a first.
Instead, I helped her tie those wings onto her shoulders again. Then I crouched down to hook my fingers in that sparkling bikini bottom she wore, tugging it down from her hips.
She lifted an absurdly graceful hand and rested it on my shoulder with the lightest possible touch as she swayed to help me, lifting one leg, then the other. I had the distinct impression that she didn’t actually need my help to balance herself. That she was touching me because she wanted to touch me.
Maybe I was a fool. But I couldn’t seem to care when my own personal angel was so close to me, smelling of sex. And me.
I’d had some vague intention of doing this or that to her delectable body once I’d finally got her naked, but now that she was I found myself transfixed by her pretty, swollen pussy.
“Hold on,” I told her.
That was all the warning I gave her.
I drew one of her legs up and over my shoulder, and she made a soft sound that might have been a sigh. Then she shifted, and I felt her balance again in an instant—confirming what I’d thought before, that she didn’t need any help finding it. That if she held on to me, it was because she wanted to.
I didn’t let myself bask in the pleasure of that, because there was far more pleasure right there before me. And I thought that if I didn’t get my mouth on her, I might die.
I wrapped my hands around her ass, bringing that sweet, soft pussy to my lips at last. She didn’t simply meet me. She bent back. All the way back, arching herself like a bow.
She was the hottest thing I’d ever had my hands on. And she tasted like sugar.
Sugar and cream, and I growled my lust and approval as I took her clit between my teeth. I tugged at her, then bit down gently.
She came again, flooding me with her scent and taste and impossible heat.
I bent to the task. I ate her like a starving man, growling every time I heard that hitch in her breath or felt her pussy quake against my tongue.
There were ways to fake almost anything, but not this. Not the way she flooded me. Not the way her clit pulsed in my mouth, and not even the way she shook and then ground her pussy against me, as if she wanted to fuck herself straight into oblivion.
Her body was a marvel. She stood with only one foot on the ground, her other leg hooked around my shoulder, and her hands on me from time to time. But she wasn’t gripping me in any way. She swayed with me, as if this was another dance. A beast devouring a beauty like every fairy tale I could recall, and all she did was arch herself back and raise her hips.
I was so hard again it was as if I hadn’t had sex in years.
And she wasn’t simply coming now in those sweet, hot bursts. She was crying out as she did it, her voice getting hoarser with each cry.
If she was faking this, she was the best I’d ever seen. And if she was faking this, she was far better at fucking than she was at dancing, and God knows watching her dance had nearly killed me where I’d sat.
She came again, her whole body flushing with the heat of it. She went red and pink everywhere as she rocked herself against my mouth and let out one of those raw little cries.
I pulled away from her, shifting to set her other foot on the ground. As I rose, she swayed there before me but stayed on her feet. She looked dazed. Drunk, almost.
Something roared in me, triumphant and hot.
“Do you come like this with all your customers?” I asked her.
I didn’t know where the question came from. I had never been a possessive man. I never compared myself to others, and not because I worried comparison might steal my joy or whatever the fuck motivational nonsense people liked to splay all over their mugs of tea. Quite the opposite. I felt confident I had no peer.
If I’d had one at all, he’d stopped speaking to me years ago when I’d lost all his money.
And I wasn’t precisely jealous now, either. It was something else. I wanted to mark her, perhaps. I wanted to leave an indelible mark on her supple, remarkable flesh. I wanted her to remember this—and me—forever.