Page 47 of The Broken Wolf's Redemption

His fingers tugged at themselves, and he was glad he’d twisted them together so they couldn’t be undone.

“What did you want to do to me?” she asked, not taunting him, blue eyes intense. “Did you want to taste my pussy?”

“Mmm.”

“Is that a yes? I’m afraid I’m going to have to hear it.”

“Yes,” he ground out.

“Should I feed it to you like this?”

She’d tip the chair over if she tried. She’d hurt herself. “No.”

“How, then?” She flipped her hair and arched her back, the soft pillows of her breasts nearly landing straight in his face.

It took a supreme amount of will, not to lean forward and tear that bra apart with his teeth.

“On the desk.”

“But you’ll be in the chair, your hands behind your back. It won’t be the right angle.”

“I’ll make it the right angle.”

“But no hands.”

“No hands.”

She got off him, her knees grinding into his thighs as she shifted away, but he didn’t even feel the pain, not even in the almost healed bullet hole she pressed on. Christ, if he never got shot again it would be too soon. Digging those bullets out at the garage was not an experience he wanted to commit to memory, but by merit of how gruesome and painful it was, it was entrenched there.

Seren swept her arm along the desktop, scattering the toys. His plans for the evening seemed like they existed in another lifetime. He’d paid careful attention to the exact minute of their time together before, but now he was lost. How much time remained? Did Seren care? They’d broken every rule in the contract already.

The toys scattered, half rolling away to the far side of the desk, the others hitting the floor. She shoved back the monitor and turned, getting up on the desk. She forced her legs apart, so far that if she kept them that way, her thighs would start to burn.

He scooted forward in the chair, knowing that the absurd one was now him. He had to bend practically in half to be able to reach her. His fingers strained, but he refused to let them move.

She never took her eyes off him. He was utterly transfixed by her perfection. She was so smooth and so pink. His mouth didn’t do something so pedestrian as just water. He wasn’t simply hungry. He was beyond starved. He was going to devour her.

Seren leaned back on her hands, reclining casually like she was a muse posing for a painting, arranged in some perfectly honorable fashion.

He looked up at her. Her face was serene, almost without expression. She was so composed. Who was this woman?

“Take your bra off.”

“No.”

Just no. She left it at that. He had to accept it. He forced a breath in, which was a struggle. The scent of her was strong this close. His fingers were probably bloodless from the strain. He was desperate to plunge his tongue into her, to gather up that sweet nectar of the gods, but he waited. He held himself back. Waited for her order.

She’d turned the game around. Turned everything on its head. Let her give it, if she was bold enough.

“Lick my pussy, Rome. If you’re waiting for my permission, if me opening my legs for you wasn’t explicit enough, you have it. I want your tongue parting me, working my clit, inside me. I’m going to come like that, on your face.” There was the tiniest hitch in her voice, but that was the only thing that gave her away.

He didn’t look up at her to see the echo of shyness and uncertainty reflected back. He gave her that reprieve. He let her continue the illusion of power and control.

He bent further and leaned forward. She’d set herself just right on the edge. He’d been close to death so many times, but he literally could have died at the perfection of the taste of her. She’d commanded him not to touch her, but neither of them said she couldn’t touch him. Her hands left the desk and hovered near his hair, but she dropped them back. She was soaked and the noise she made when his tongue met her center said that despite everything, she wanted this as much as he did.

He’d promised to destroy her, not worship her, but she was too good. Too perfect. She had a body made for sin, made for accolades, made to reduce a man to ash, prostrate at her feet. He wasn’t on the floor, but he was bowed before her.

Coiled, more like. He was the most lethal when it was least expected. Every muscle in his body was tight, electricity coursing through him. He was sticky with sweat at the effort of holding himself back. How much longer could he play this game? Was it a game within a game? It felt so much more like reality. He would never have found himself in this position when it came to anyone else. Never would he have prostrated himself or handed over the keys of power. Never would he have fucked up so badly and enjoyed it so much.

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