Page 45 of Hunted to Be Mine
“Specter.”
His head lifted. Gray eyes locked to mine.
“Here,” he said, fingers pressing my pulse. “I’m right here.”
His mouth returned. He licked from my entrance to clit, paused to check my face, then did it again harder. I grabbed the sheet. He didn’t rush. He built me slowly, light flicks, then a circle, then a suck that made me cry out. He watched every reaction and adjusted. When my hips rolled, he pinned them with his shoulders, tongue matching. When my breath hitched, he eased off, let me chase it, then gave it back.
“Good,” he murmured into me, voice ragged. “Keep breathing.”
He slipped one finger along me, not entering, just gathering and bringing it to his tongue. He moaned, low, and the sound did something to my insides.
“More,” I rasped. “Eat my pussy.”
He laughed against me, dark and quiet. His thumb found my clit, steady pressure while his mouth went lower, tongue tasting my entrance before pressing in. I tightened around him, hips lifting. He felt it. One finger slid in slowly, perfectly curled. He stroked the front wall while his mouth worked my clit with measured suction.
“Fuck, yes…”
His fingers at my throat tightened carefully. “Stay with me.”
I locked on his face. He watched mine. Every breath I drew sharpened his focus, each exhale grounding him as much as it undid me. He built me methodically, patient as a metronome, my pulse under his touch, my sounds in his mouth.
He pulled away right when everything tightened. Air rushed in. My hips chased him; he was gone.
He dragged his mouth across the inside of my thigh, leaving heat. I looked down; my skin shone, trembling. Half-moons marked his shoulders where my nails had dug in, angry crescents.
He sat back on his heels, eyes satisfied, like he’d won something. I’d never seen him look so sure.
“Not yet. I want to hear you ask properly.”
“That’s not fair…”
“Nothing about this is fair. Say please, Doctor.”
The title hit hard. He didn’t touch me, and that made it worse. Every nerve wanted him. My training wanted posture, a measured response; all I had were rough breaths and a body begging. His gaze tracked every twitch in my thighs, every inhale, focused like before a fight. Only now, I was the weapon and he wouldn’t pull the trigger.
My voice came out rough.
I needed control back. I grabbed his shoulders and shoved. He let me. He rocked back on his hands, teeth bared, permission and warning in one.
“Stop playing games. I know what I want.”
“Show me what you want.”
I climbed into his lap, knees around his hips, his body solid under me. I took his mouth and didn’t give him a second, tasting salt and heat and restrained trembling. My palms moved over his chest, found his throat, his jaw. I rolled over him, set a rhythm that turned need into friction, pressure, drag that mademy head tip back and pulled a rough sound from him. He let me. Thirty seconds, maybe less, where I ran everything: my pace, my kiss, my hunger.
I wasn’t a doctor or a careful woman. I was a body that knew what it needed and took it.
His hands slid to my waist, too gentle, and then everything shifted.
No, not everything. Him.
He pivoted, using my momentum to set me down. The world flipped. My back hit the mattress, wrists caught and lifted above my head. His fingers wrapped them, not cruel, but so sure I couldn’t pull free.
He looked down at me, the desperation from before gone, replaced by control. His eyes had steadied.
“My game. My rules. You don’t get to rush this.”
Heat flared low, frustration mixing with the charge of being held by someone who knew how. I tugged once. Useless. He tightened just enough for my pulse to jump, then eased, reminding me.
