Page 39 of Stick Break
I run my hands down his spine, over the ridges of muscle, memorizing the hard curves and lean strength that make up Ripley Hart. He draws back a little, like he’s trying to get a better look at me, but I cling to him—desperate to keep him close. It’s like this man has somehow become my lifeline.
“Babe,” he says, voice rough with need and something deeper. “I want you.”
I swallow hard. There’s no pretending now. No games.
“I want you too, Rip.”
He starts with the softest kiss, barely brushing my mouth, then moves to my nose, my eyelids, the curve of my cheek. Each one lands like a promise of more to come before he drifts lower.
When his lips reach my neck, he breathes me in, like he needs the scent of me to survive. Then, with slow, open-mouthed kisses, he charts a path along my skin, easing lower, sinking his body against mine until the mattress holds us both. Heat pools deep inside me, anticipation simmering just beneath the surface.
His mouth finds my breast, and I cry out before I can stop it.
“Oh God, Rip, that feels so good.”
He groans against me, the sound vibrating through my skin as he pulls my nipple into his mouth. He doesn’t rush—he lingers, sucks, flicks with his tongue, like this is a feast and I’m the first course he’s ever truly wanted. His hand cups my other breast, kneading and teasing, stoking every nerve ending with unhurried care.
My fingers slip into his hair, holding on—not to guide him, not to rush him—but to anchor myself to the sensation of being completely seen, completely wanted.
When he moves lower, kissing a trail over my stomach, my thighs tense in anticipation. Then, when his lips hover at the apex of my legs, he parts me gently with his fingers.
And pauses.
Like I’m a masterpiece he’s savoring before the first touch of paint.
His gaze flicks up, locking on mine, and I rise onto my elbows, needing to see him see me.
“I like everything I see, babe,” he says, voice rough, reverent. “And I bet you taste just as sweet.”
“Ohmigod,” I whisper. “Rip.”
He chuckles softly. “Yeah, babe?”
“You just—I mean, I just?—”
His thumb strokes my hip. “How about you stop thinking and let me take care of you?”
There’s no part of me that can argue with that. I nod, as my body trembles under his gaze.
He slides his hands beneath me, lifting my hips like I weigh nothing, and cradles me to his mouth. And then he devours me.
The first stroke of his tongue, hot and slow from bottom to top, pulls a sound from my throat that’s more raw than human. My spine arches, pleasure slicing through me like lightning. He laughs, a low, sinful rumble, and the vibration nearly undoes me.
My fingers clutch at the sheets, at him, at anything, as his mouth moves in dizzying, perfect circles around my clit. He’s not guessing. He’s not fumbling. He’s tasting me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered, like he has all night and all the skill to bring me apart, piece by glorious piece.
And when my hips twitch, desperate for more, for him, I nearly reach down to grab his head and guide him home.
Nearly.
Because I think—no, I know—he’s already on his way, and my only job here is to relax and let him take care of me.
He glances up at me with a knowing grin—the kind that says yeah, I’m going to take you there…eventually.
Oh, he wants to play games does he. Fine. I’m game.
Or at least I was.
Until he slides a finger inside me.
