Page 68 of Wicked Serve

My belly tightens with want as slick gathers between my legs, but despite my pleas, he just keeps massaging my feet. By the time he rises, turning me around so he can set the stole aside and undo the row of buttons marching down my spine, I’m forced to bite my tongue to keep moans from spilling out with each touch. He tosses his jacket and tie aside haphazardly, but at my look, carefully drapes the dress over the chair in the corner.

He doesn’t bother undressing me further.

Instead, he takes his time rolling up his sleeves. We didn’t turn on the lights, and the shadows sharpen the angles of his face.

“Arrange yourself however you like,” he practically purrs.

My nipples go taut, rubbing against the textured fabric of my bra. The sky-blue straps crisscross over my rib cage, leading down to matching panties. By the way his gaze darkens, I know he can see the wet spot on the front, the undeniable evidence of my arousal.

As if I could be anything else when he’s like this. Dominant, yet graceful. Noting the part of me that craves it, and offering to pull me in. I haven’t seen this side of him in full force since the summer.

I take a step back, then another, until my legs hit the bed.

I let myself fall.

“You still want me on my knees?” he says with amusement.

I nod breathlessly, sitting up on my elbows. Even better than his deep tone of voice is the way he looks as he sinks to his knees again. No hesitation, just raw lust etched into every inch of his beautiful face. He settles between my legs, pressing them open with his wide shoulders, and lets his breath ghost over the front of my panties.

I whimper, my hand drifting to my breasts. I pull my bra far enough down that I can twist my nipples between my fingertips.

At his curse, I smile at the ceiling—but it doesn’t last long when he nuzzles over the damp silk. His hands dig into my hips as he licks the fabric; he scrapes his teeth over it with enough pressure I gasp. Fingers slide over the top of the panties, then lower, pulling the ruined fabric aside so he can give me a proper lick. I think he says something, but I can’t hear it over the buzzing in my ears, the urge to lift my hips even though he has me so thoroughly pinned.

And when his teeth catch on my clit, a finger pushing into me, my hips do come off the bed.

“So fucking delicious,” he says, kissing my thigh wetly. “You taste like you were made just for me.”

I can’t reach his hair from this angle, but I wish I could; I want to pull and pull until he’s breathless, too. I wish I could speak, but I seem to have lost that capacity. When I try, I just whine. He dives back in, fingering me as he licks and nibbles and sucks. My core tightens, seeking more friction. I’m warm from the tips of my ears to the soles of my feet. He adds another finger, stretching roughly. I whimper, twisting in his grasp until he holds me down and seals his mouth around my clit, turning my desire molten.

His name finally bursts from my lips as I climax, swept away in an unyielding surf of pleasure. I struggle to angle my elbows so I can get a glimpse of him, even as he continues to use that talented mouth and curl his teasing fingers.

He noses through the trimmed hair around my clit as his gaze meets mine.

Mouth slick. Eyes dancing.

I can’t see his grin, but I can feel it.

I muster up enough attitude to feel worthy of the necklace that’s still around my throat.

“Are you going to just stare, or get back to work?”

The words hit the mark; his body goes rigid. Pressing a quick kiss to my hip, he rips off my lingerie, then the rest of his clothes. He settles against the headboard, as comfortable as a panther in a tree.

I wet my lips, staring at his smooth, muscled chest, his strong legs, and especially his hardened length, framed by neat, dark hair. He’s the picture of carefully contained power, and even though he wrung me out with his mouth, I want more.

He strokes himself lazily, and I nearly whimper aloud, clenching around nothing.

By the way he raises his eyebrow, he knows it.

“Crawl to me, Isabelle.”

The order—because it is an order—hangs in the air for the slightest of moments. He doesn’t push, and I know if I shook my head, he’d pull me into his arms and ask where things went wrong, if my knee still hurts from earlier, but that’s not what I want. I’ve always found safety in the ways he pushes me, and this is no exception.

So I crawl.

He keeps stroking himself, and I crawl, inch by inch, up the bed. Deliberately slow. A show for him, clad in nothing but the diamond necklace, my hair long and loose around my shoulders. My breasts sway with each movement. I just came, but I honestly think I could climax again from the position, the exposure, the look on his face as he drinks in the sight of me.

When I’m close enough, he doesn’t tease; he drags me straight into his lap.

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