Page 120 of My Sweetest Agony
Something about watching him paint me, completely nude, so intensely focused on the canvas and my body…
A slow grin pulls at his lips, making him even more handsome, even more feral looking. Like some sort of animal was just unleashed when he realized what watching him paint me does to my body, even now. “You did like it, didn’t you, Ivy?”
I nod, a breathy, “Yes,” slipping from my parted lips.
He grinds the meaty part of his palm against my clit, ghosting his lips across mine, teasing me in both places. “I loved it. Seeing you in my bed, knowing I was just inside you, how fucking beautiful and pink you were after I made you come.”
I tremble again, unable to stop myself from rolling my hips along his length and hand, so desperate for the friction now that it’s embarrassing.
“Would you like me to do that again, Ivy?” Another brush of his lips and a crush of his hand. “Twist you up into different positions and paint you so you can see how fucking stunning you are?”
“Oh, God.”
I drop my forehead against his shoulder, and he grins into my neck, his tongue snaking over my thrumming pulse.
“That can be arranged, Ivy. All you had to do was ask.”
Fuck.
I thought losing Drew was going to kill me, too, but Cam has become my sweetest agony.
This man…he will be what truly destroys me.
His fingers delve through my slick core, easily drenching my clit in my arousal, and my hips twist at the contact, jerking in his hold. He groans as he devours me, his tongue lashing against mine, his hips grinding forward, his body seeking the same thing mine is—that connection we found last night. The utter desperation and need that completely wash away everything else—all our reservations, all our worries, all our sins.
The longer we kiss, the harder he grinds his hand and cock against me, the more delerious I become, scoring my nails over his skin, clinging to him with a kind of frenzied, burning, soul-deep desire that feels like it might consume me in its flames.
When Cam tears his head back and steps away, both of us panting, struggling to find our breath, I brace my hands on the counter and watch him shuck off his jacket and let it fall to the floor. Then he reaches between his shoulders and pulls off his shirt in one smooth motion that leaves his upper body exposed in the kitchen light.
Every deep groove and valley of hard-earned muscle, his tattoos practically alive as they dance across the sun-kissed skin. The snakes coil and writhe over thickly corded forearms as he reaches for his waistband.
“I wish I could paint you.”
He freezes, his head cocking to the side. “Why can’t you?”
I bark out a laugh that has him grinning. “Because I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.”
His fingers pop the button and gradually drag down the zipper, releasing his hard cock before he shoves his jeans the rest of the way down, tugs them off, and tosses them haphazardly behind him.
My mouth goes dry as he takes himself in one hand and strokes it, then steps forward, sliding his free one along the hem of my shirt, dragging his fingers back and forth gently, teasing my sensitive skin and leaving goosebumps across it.
He dips his head to mine, fluttering a kiss across my lips. “I beg to differ.”
The head of his cock glides through my wetness, and I grin at him as he slowly pushes inside me.
My eyes roll back, my head dropping as he fills me—inch by glorious inch.
“Fuck…”
The word tumbles from my lips on a sob he catches in his mouth, and he uses his hands to push my shirt up and over my breasts, then tears away long enough to get me fully naked.
When his lips find mine again, it isn’t the needy, desperate, frantic kisses he’s given me before. It’s torturously slow, as is the way he draws back his hips and sinks into me again, grinding against my clit when he reaches the hilt. His tongue drags along mine at the same tempo as his languid hips.
In.
Out.
Advance.
