Page 89 of Tuned To Break
“Fuck. You wore this for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Fuck, darl.”
He strips the dress off my shoulders and tosses it somewhere over the back of the couch. Then he sinks to his knees on the hallway floor, hands curling behind my thighs, nose brushing my belly.
“Jake…”
He kisses the waistband. “Breathe, baby. I’m going to make you feel so fucking good.”
My hands find his hair as he hooks his fingers under the lace and eases the shorts down, slow and deliberate. When they pool at my feet, he nips the inside of my thigh, grinning at the tremble that ripples through me.
“You’re already shaking.”
“Maybe don’t tease if you want me to stay standing.”
“Not planning on you standing for much longer.”
He licks a slow line up my thigh, then lifts me effortlessly. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and I feel him—thick and hard—straining against denim.
We crash into the bedroom with shared urgency, clothes scattering. He strips me first, kissing every new inch of skin. His mouth trails over my breasts, ribs, hips, like he’s been waiting all day to memorise me.
“Lie back,” he says, voice thick with want. “Open for me.”
I do, and the second my back hits the mattress, he’s crawling over me. Shirtless now. Tattooed arms braced on either side of my head; eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing that matters.
“You’re so beautiful, Stella. You know that?”
I nod because it’s all I can manage—especially when he ducks his head and draws my nipple into his mouth, sucking softly before letting it go with a sinful sound that shoots straight between my legs.
“Jake, please?—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing down my stomach. “I always have.”
When his mouth finally finds me, I swear I black out for a second. His tongue is skilled, confident—slow at first, then purposeful as he devours me. One hand slides under my thigh,lifting it over his shoulder; the other anchors me as he circles, flicks, sucks with maddening control.
“Fuck—Jake—I’m gonna?—”
“Good. Give it to me.”
I come with a cry, arching off the bed. He groans into me like my orgasm is the only thing that matters, and he doesn't stop until I’m squirming, too sensitive, breathless, wrecked.
He climbs back up, kissing me until I taste myself on his tongue and moan into his mouth.
“You good?” he asks, brushing hair from my face.
“Better than good. But I need you.”
“You have me.”
He fumbles his jeans down with a growl, and the second he’s free I wrap my legs around his waist.
“No going slow,” I whisper. “I need you hard. Fast.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
He thrusts into me in one smooth stroke, stealing the breath from my lungs. We both groan at the contact—at how perfectly we fit.
