Page 146 of When the Storm Breaks
It’s a kiss meant to make up for every moment I ran, every week I spent fighting how completely she owns me.
I kiss her harder, deeper, erasing the distance. Erasing every second wasted. I need to feel it—the hunger in every cell of my body.
She could burn me alive, and I’d beg for it.
I can’t hide anymore. I grab her wrist and guide her hand to my chest, pressing it over my heart. I know she feels it—wild, frantic, beating for her.
“Yours,” I whisper.
With her hand still in mine, I guide it lower—across my chest, down to the waistband of my briefs. Her nails graze my skin, light but deliberate, and a shiver runs through me.
She pauses, just for a second, like she’s weighing the effect she has on me.
“Please.” I breathe. “Touch me.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, she sinks to her knees—and in that moment, I know I’ve already given myself to her.
It’s not just lust. Not the raw need coiled tight inside me. It’sher. The way she moves. The way she gives herself so freely, like she’s already mine.
She looks perfect like this—lashes lowered, lips parted, green eyes lit with something that isn’t quite submission.
Not yet, anyway.
Her fingers trace the outline of me through my briefs—slow, like she’s deciding exactly how she wants to take me.
My breath hitches—a ragged, pained sound escaping me. I’m already straining against the fabric, aching for her, and she’s barelytouched me.
“Slow,” I murmur, almost a plea.
I want to give her control.
Because the hunger in her eyes tells me everything.
She needs this just as badly as I do.
My pulse spikes as she hooks her fingers into my waistband, dragging it down carefully. My cock springs free, and she inhales like she’s desperate to taste me.
I watch, helpless, as her fingers wrap around me. The heat of her touch, the slow slide of her hand—it rips a low sound from my throat. My hips jerk forward involuntarily, chasing more.
My hands clench at my sides, fighting for control.
But I’m losing it.
She presses a quick, teasing kiss to the tip before trailing her tongue along my length—slow. Deliberate. Torturous.
A soft, depraved hum rises in her throat as she moves, savoring every inch. Her hands grip my thighs, steadying herself as she adjusts to take me in, and I can’t look away.
She’s taking her time.
And it’s fucking killing me.
I curse under my breath, head tipping back as I fight to stay still.
But she pushes me—adjusting the angle, the pressure—watching every ragged breath I take as she hollows her cheeks, sucking harder with each exhale.
“More, pretty girl,” I rasp, voice strained.
