Page 50 of False Confidence

“Do you want me on my back or on my knees, baby?”

“Your back,” he replied, his voice like gravel.

When Jazz turned to lie down, Liam was still kneeling at the end of the bed, like she’d caught him mid prayer. He stood up, his eyes flicking over every inch of her. He shook his head, his expression almost stunned.

“What?” she asked, and he drew his gaze to her face.

Liam followed her up the bed, kneeling between her open thighs, so close that his cock rested on her belly. He cupped her face with his hand, his expression blazing. “I know you hate praise, but… Fuck, Jasmine, you can’t expect me to see you like this and not tell you that you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had the fucking privilege to lay eyes on. You belong in the Louvre.”

“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes burning, because how the hell was she supposed to respond to that?

He said the Louvre with a perfect French accent and Jazz filed that knowledge away for later. Did he speak French? Had he visited Paris? There was so much she didn’t know about him, and she wanted to know everything.

Jazz had always obsessed over things—hobbies, tv shows, celebrities, niche interests she absorbed in excess, learning as much as she could before the swell of interest dissipated and she moved onto something else. But she’d never wanted to absorb something as much as she did Liam. She wanted to take a walk through his brain and learn everything there was to know about Liam Michaelson. She wanted him to consume her.

As if he saw that in her eyes, Liam leaned in and kissed her. She could get drunk on the taste of him, the taste of her on his tongue: sweet and salty and perfect. His tongue danced with hers like he was imprinting himself on her.

“Please, Liam,” she begged, and Liam brushed his lips over hers once more before sitting up. He reached across the bed and slid open the nightstand drawer, but Jazz stilled him with a hand on his arm.

The emerald in his eyes was almost black when he met her gaze, desperation etched in every line on his face.

“I don’t want to use a condom. I want to feel you as close as I can,” Jazz whispered. “I’m on birth control and I get tested regularly. But if you want to use one, we should.”

“I get tested too,” Liam said, closing the drawer. “And I’ll always want to be as close to you as I possibly can be.”

Jazz ran her finger up his arm and over his chest, lingering over his heart, before trailing it down his stomach and watching him shudder as she brushed his cock. Liam sat back, fisting his cock.

And when he pressed inside her, they weren’t brat and dom, darling and baby, best friend and stepson. They were Jazz and Liam. Jasmine and Liam, Jazz mentally amended when Liam groaned her name, stilling inside her.

The strain of not coming for so long was clear in the tension in his muscles, and Jazz was determined that he wouldn’t be waiting any longer. Even if she couldn’t come, he’d been waiting long enough. He’d been so good to her, and sure, he’d be pissed to be the one coming first, but she would make it up to him by making him come time and time again. She needed him to fall apart, needed to know she was the one making it happen. Perhaps she understood the pleasure dom thing more than she thought.

Jazz felt impossibly full with both him and the plug inside her, but she squeezed her pussy around his cock and Liam’s hand flew out, slamming against the headboard. “Christ,” he cried, his breathing labored. “Jasmine, darling, do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? It’s written all over your beautiful face.”

He covered her body with his, his arms bracketing her head, his forehead pressed to hers. “I know you want to make me come. And you can. When you come.” He pulled out of her and thrust back inside, once, twice, Jazz lost count as flames engulfed her body.

“Rule number three: we’re in this together, remember? You want me to let go? You first.”

It wasn’t a challenge, but it sure as hell sounded like one. But Jazz could hardly focus on anything Liam was saying. Every stroke inside her made her more sensitive than the strike of the flogger had.

Liam leaned back, gripping her hips and using the spring of the mattress to fuck her. Unable to reach his back, Jazz’s nails raked over his thighs, and she threw her head back, the blood rushing in her ears all she could hear. Until Liam’s voice broke through, and she forced herself back into the present, a spring coiling in her belly at the sight of his smile, strained but soft.

“There she is. Look up, darling.”

Jazz frowned but followed his direction, gasping as she realized why he’d suggested it. She’d forgotten about the mirrors. With Liam sitting back, she could see every inch of his cock disappearing inside her. She took in the full picture: her thighs and stomach wobbling with every thrust, her breasts bouncing, her hair splayed around her like flames on the white pillowcase, her pale skin slicked with sweat and burning red. But it was like she was seeing herself through Liam’s eyes, seeing the beauty in her body—the art they made together.

She met his eye in the mirror, their reflections amplifying every brush of his skin against hers. He released his grip on her hips, one hand grasping the back of her thigh to give him more leverage, opening her wider to him. Jazz cried out as he hit her deeper. Her body felt like it might burst, the pressure from the plug only serving to make everything more sensitive.

Liam brushed his thumb over her clit and Jazz’s vision blurred at the edges, a soft haze the color of his eyes creeping across the room. She was no longer in control of the sounds falling from her lips like cascading dominos, of the way her body shook and trembled beneath him, lashes of fire and electricity striking every inch of her. Her fists and toes clenched, her palm stinging as her nails dug into her skin.

Breathing became a struggle, short, sharp bursts trying to force oxygen into her lungs between cries and curses and whimpers of Liam’s name. His fingers shook where he gripped her thigh. Jazz could tell his control was faltering; though he’d had a steady rhythm when he started playing with her clit, his movements were becoming jerky, hard, then soft, his thrusts becoming merciless.

She was so close she could cry. She’d forgotten sex could feel like this—shit, had sex ever felt like this? No. It was just him. Liam. The man who saw her, inside and out, and still liked her.

In the same second that thought crossed her mind, Liam pinched her clit and breathed her name, and Jazz didn’t so much as leap from the cliff as explode like a fucking supernova.

Her vision went black, every sound dying in her throat, her body suspended in a moment of perfect stillness that simultaneously felt like it lasted for a split second and an hour. And then the wave crashed over her.

It was like being doused in a pool of glitter, shimmering stars falling around her as fireworks burst behind her eyelids. She was vaguely aware of Liam’s body covering hers, his lips pressed against her jaw, tears slipping down her cheeks. The comedown was a slow fall, rather than a crash, and Liam coaxed her through it, murmuring soft words she couldn’t distinguish in her ear. Her heart was still racing when the shockwaves dissipated, her lungs still screaming for air, but Jazz managed to pry her eyes open.

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