Page 68 of Beyond the Lines
As I kiss her, I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties, pulling them down just enough to expose her. Then I pull away from the kiss and drop down again. She’s glistening, swollen with desire, and the sight of her like this—wanting me despite everything—makes my cock throb almost painfully.
Her breath catches audibly. “Declan…”
I’m not sure if it’s a protest or a plea, but when I lean in and drag my tongue along her wetness, her objections dissolve into a moan. Her thighs tremble as I explore her with my mouth, learning what makes her grip the edge of the sink until her knuckles turn white, what makes her bite her lip to stifle her cries.
She’s writhing against my face like she’s trying to exorcize something painful through physical touch, and I let her use me, willing to be whatever she needs in this moment. When I focus my attention on her clit, sucking gently while slipping two fingers inside her, her whole body tenses.
“Oh god,” she gasps, one hand flying to tangle in my hair, holding me against her as she gets closer, pulsing around my fingers.
I work her through her orgasm over the next few moments, gentling my touch as she becomes oversensitive, feeling anabsurd sense of pride at how responsive she is to me. When I finally pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, she’s looking down at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Your drawing was beautiful,” I tell her softly.
Her lips quirk in a half-smile. “I know that now…”
“How?”
“The way you’re looking at me now is the way you looked at my drawing.”
And then we’re kissing again, but she makes it clear she’s running the show. She pops down off the sink and drops to her knees, still urgent and angry, but something else now. It’s like we’re two loose wires that have finally been connected, the danger dealt with and the electricity now flowing.
But connected and electric doesn’t mean stable, and Lea’s frustration is evident in every gesture as she fumbles with my belt, her fingers trembling with what seems like equal parts desire and emotion. The metallic clinking echoes in the small space like a cannon as she yanks at the buckle.
“Let me help,” I murmur, covering her hands with mine.
She pulls back, glaring up at me. “I can do it myself.”
But she can’t—not with how badly her hands are shaking—and after another moment of struggling, she lets out a frustrated sound that’s somewhere between a growl and a whimper. I gently move her hands aside and undo my belt in one smooth motion.
Her eyes lock with mine, challenge blazing in that green-gold gaze, before she yanks the belt through the loops herself and tosses it aside. And then there’s something almost punishing about her movements as she unbuttons my jeans and tugs down the zipper.
Her fingers brush against me through my boxers, and my breath catches at the contact. Even that slight touch sendselectricity shooting up my spine. When she slides her hand inside and grips me, the sensation is almost painful in its intensity.
“Jesus, Lea,” I hiss, my hips jerking forward involuntarily.
She gasps as she frees me from my boxers, her eyes widening. “Jesus yourself…”
The expression on her face—surprise mixed with something like appreciation—would be comical under different circumstances. But there’s nothing funny about the way she wraps her hand around me, her grip almost punishing in its firmness.
Her strokes are erratic, matching the chaotic energy between us—sometimes achingly slow, sometimes nearly frantic. It’s like she can’t decide whether she wants to pleasure me or torture me, and honestly, I’m not sure if there’s a difference right now.
“Lea,” I say, my voice strained. “You don’t have to?—”
She stops me from talking by taking my cock in her mouth.
The wet heat of her engulfs me, and I have to brace one hand against the wall to steady myself. My other hand moves to her hair, not guiding or controlling, just needing to touch her, to ground myself in this moment that feels too intense to be real.
Her mouth is relentless, taking me deeper than I expected, her tongue doing things that make coherent thought impossible. My fingers tangle gently in her curls, caressing her scalp, and tracing the curve of her cheek where I can feel myself inside her mouth.
“God, you’re amazing,” I manage to say, my voice barely recognizable.
She responds by taking me deeper, a hand cupping myballs now, a slight bit harder than is comfortable. But the slight pain only heightens everything else, creating a perfect counterpoint to the pleasure she’s delivering with an artist’s precision.
I stroke her face with a tenderness that seems at odds with the desperate energy between us. But I need her to know this isn’t just physical for me, that there’s something more happening here, a lifting of a weight off me that I didn’treallyknow I was carrying.
“Your art,” I say, the words coming out broken as my tip hits the back of her throat, and she gags slightly. “I love it.”
She falters for a second, her rhythm disrupted, and her eyes glisten with tears again. I’m not sure if it’s from the effort of taking as much of me in her mouth as possible, or the words I just spoke, but I worry I’ve ruined the moment. But then she redoubles her efforts, as if trying to silence me with pleasure.
