Page 140 of The Fine Line
I smile, soft but real. “Cub, I’ve been on my knees for you for years. Only difference now is that you don’t have to pretend you don’t like it.”
Her mouth opens—surely to argue—but I press my hand gently to her stomach, easing her back down.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I murmur. “Just let go.”
Two fingers slide into her slick heat as my mouth returns to her. She gasps, arching up as I press deeper, anchoring her with my hand.
“That’s it, angel.”
I keep working her open with my mouth and fingers, tasting every part of her, savoring the way her body trembles beneath my hands. She’s soaked—my fingers glide in and out so easily, and every time my tongue grazes her, she gasps like it surprises her.
“You still hate me?” I whisper against her.
“Yes,” she breathes, but her voice cracks, the word already unraveling.
“Show me.”
She doesn’t. She just keeps moving, her hips starting to rollwith each flick of my tongue like she’s chasing something she doesn’t want to admit she wants from me.
Then, suddenly—frustration flashes across her face. She sits up, chest heaving, and reaches for my belt. Fingers shaky but determined, she undoes the buckle. Lowers the zipper. Her hand slips inside, and when she wraps it around me and gives one slow stroke, I hiss through my teeth.
“Easy,” I grit, grabbing her wrist and gently pushing her back against the couch. I lean over her, eyes locked.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
Her brows pinch. “Tell you what?”
I guide myself between her slick heat, dragging my tip slowly through her wetness without pushing in. She moans, her body already trembling again.
“Tell me who made you this wet. Tell me who’s got you dripping all over this seven-thousand-dollar couch.”
She scoffs, but it’s breathy, barely holding on. “What kind of idiot spends that much on a couch?”
“The idiot you’re never gonna forget,” I say as I drag myself through her again, teasing her, torturing us both.
I lean in. Her head turns away, so I kiss down the column of her neck, letting my lips linger, soaking her in. Then I lower, tugging the neckline of her dress down to expose her breast. I wrap my mouth around her nipple, sucking slowly, while my hand finds the other, rolling it gently between my fingers.
She arches toward me. “Rhett!”
“That’s right, baby,” I murmur. “Now, say it.”
Her eyes are glassy. “Say what?”
Tears prick the corners of her eyes, and something about it hits me deep in my chest.
“Say please,” I whisper. “If you want to come.”
“Not a chance,” she says, defiant.
So I stop. Pull back. Her body bucks in frustration.
“Dammit, Rhett,” she growls. Then finally—“Please.”
That one word lights me up. I reach between us, rub slow circles over her clit with the pad of my thumb, and she comes undone almost instantly. Her hips jerk. Back arches. Then her cry cuts through the night air—my name on her lips like a curse and a prayer.
As her breathing slows, I press a kiss to her temple. “That all you can take tonight?”
She lets out a ragged laugh. “Not even close.”
