Page 75 of A Match Made in Hell
It’s slow, and it’s torturous, and I take back everything I’ve said before.Nowis the point I combust.
‘Then I’d go down on you,’ he murmurs, his finger still moving at a snail’s pace – I move on him, urging him faster faster faster, and at this point I can only assume he’s ignoring me on purpose, the bastard. ‘Taste you with my tongue. How do you think you’d taste?’
Attempts at propriety lost, I mutter both obscenities and his name repeatedly; I’m going to break apart, splinter in two, explode into a million little pieces that he’ll have to put together again. I’m on the edge of a cliff, but this time when I go over I’m not going to fall to my death, I’m going to fly, and he’s going to give it to me –
He withdraws. I gasp. ‘What are you –’
What the fuck is he thinking. He can’t stopnow.
‘Did you want to ask me something, Willow?’
Yes. A thousand times, yes.For once, it’s my voice urging me on. I don’t need any encouragement from disembodied voices in this situation.
‘Willow?’ Sath’s finger teases me once more.
I bite my lips before forcing one word through them. ‘No.’
‘Hm.’ He presses down on a point that makes me see stars. ‘Looks like I’m not trying hard enough.’
‘How –’ Forming sentences is proving difficult. ‘How much longer do we – ah – have left –’
Tracing lazy circles around that same spot, he says, ‘Thirty minutes.’
I groan, although I suspect the meaning behind the sound is murky. ‘Thirty minutes, Sath, I can’t –’
‘You can.’ His mouth finds my neck, sucking and nibbling the flesh there while I clench around him, arching off the bed. ‘Ask me,’ he whispers. ‘Just ask me.’
His lips move upwards, brushing my jaw, my cheeks, my mouth. Feather-light. I chase after them, needing more of him, and he darts out of the way, forever unobtainable. ‘Ask me.’
I want to.
I want to so badly it hurts. But –
What about Sath? What parts of you will he end up hating?
As loath as I am to admit it, the Sorter’s right. I always disappoint in the end. I don’t want to stick around and watch him make that discovery.
‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘We can’t.’
A second finger joins the first. ‘Are you sure?’
No. Yes. I whimper. ‘Sath, please –’
‘What was that?’ He’s moving far, far too slowly. ‘Did you need something?’
What I need is for him to stop this torture. Pressure builds again as he finally increases the pace; the bed sheets tear in my hand as I twist them too hard, my breaths quickening with every move he makes. I throw my head back, mouth parted, grinding against him, I can’t get enough and –
He pulls away.
I could scream.
‘Well? Did you need something?’
‘No.’ I throw an arm over my face. ‘Go away.’
He chuckles. ‘Look at me.’
I acquiesce. Reluctantly. While pouting. As soon as our eyes meet, his fingers slide into place. Holding my gaze, he moves in and out once more; our chests rising in time like we’re puppets held on each other’s strings. I’m lost in his stare, sinking into its golden depths as my body matches his rhythm. I touch his face, trailing a path down skin as hot as coals, my thumb resting onhis lower lip.
