Page 9 of Wristlocked
I laugh, chasing the normalcy of the moment—Lyot and me talking about guys, even if neither of us will ever get to fuck this particular one.
“Lyot?”
Wariness radiates from the look he gives me.
“If Gale’s passion is anger”—I bump my shoulder against his arm and give his hand a squeeze—“yours is beauty.”
“Jesus, Gia.” He stops walking.
“What?”
“Now I can’t decide if I want to fuck his name out of your mouth forever.” He tugs me against him and drops his lips to my ear. “Or spread your legs and show you exactly how passionate I can be about beauty.”
Holy shit.
“Um, both?” I give him my best sultry look, letting the challenge hang between us. Scanning the courtyard, he takes in the small groups of students walking together, chatting or laughing as they explore. No one is paying attention to us, and after a few seconds, he comes to a decision, dragging me back the way we came and into a narrow, shadowed space between the weight room and the aerial gym. A row of large air-conditioning units line the brick wall, humming loudly in the confined space.
He backs me up against the last unit, grinning as I reach for the ties on his sweats.
“No.” He smacks my hands away, lightly, but the sting still sends a shiver through me. “I’ve decided on option B. I want to walk back into that gym with your scent all over my face and fingers.” His hands circle my waist, and he lifts me effortlessly onto the machine.
“When did you become such a caveman?” I ask, trying not to squirm as the fan’s vibration beneath me adds a new layer of sensation to the heat already building in my core. “It’s not usually your style to mark your territory.”
He slides his hands up the outside of my thighs and into my gym shorts, squeezing my ass and pulling me roughly forward. The height is perfect, the hard ridge of his cock grinding against my throbbing clit.
“Are you complaining?”
In answer, I lean back on my hands, giving him a slow smile as I spread my thighs.
“Didn’t think so.” He steps back and peels my shorts from my body, planting a featherlight kiss on the inside of my thigh. With a hand circling each of my ankles, he pushes my knees up and out, spreading me open for him with slow, inexorable pressure. The look on his face is devastating as he takes in the soaked thong barely covering the swollen evidence of my arousal.
My thoughts swirl, alarm and desire colliding as he holds me hostage. Lyot is confident and thorough in his knowledge of my body, a willing disciple in the dance of control and surrender we do so well. But the raw hunger in his eyes now speaks of possession, of a line uncrossed. Something sharp and heavy stirs to life inside me, a warning and a promise, and I start to draw my knees together, struggling to sit up against the tide of desire suffusing my limbs.
His eyes flicker to mine, searching, and then he steps into my body, sliding a hand between us to cup my sex. One finger presses gently at the slick fabric over my entrance, while the heel of his hand grinds slow circles over my clit. The machine under me rumbles, sending torturous vibrations through his skin into mine, and my head falls back, doubts scattering under the onslaught of sensation.
“No thinking, little Shadow,” he whispers, his other hand reaching up to cup my breast, teasing my nipple through the cotton layers of my bra and tank. The almost-contact is driving me crazy, desperate to feel the rough calluses of his hands on my skin. I arch into him, and he gives me what I want, dragging the fabric down to take my nipple between his teeth. He sinks them into the sensitive flesh, sending a jolt of pleasure down my spine, before swirling his tongue around the hardened peak and drawing it into his mouth. His other hand continues the slow pressure between my thighs, moving aside my thong to dip the tip of one finger inside me.
“Lyot,” I plead, but the press of his palm holds me still when I try to draw him deeper.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he groans against my skin. “I love how wet I can make you with just my hands.”
“I love how hard I can make you with just my voice,” I murmur, squirming beneath his touch. “Nowplease, stop teasing and make me come.”
“Hmmm.” He moves his mouth to my other nipple, then slides his goddamn finger through my slick folds, drawing a trail of need from my clit to my ass. Sparks flicker behind my eyelids as everything tries to clench around his hand, chasing his touch. I go to squeeze my thighs together, but this time, he grabs my knees, forcing them even wider as I writhe and gasp.
“Keep them open for me, Shadow,” he growls against my breast, “and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”
I hesitate, my conscience warring with my greedy body. This pushing back is new, and it’s making my monster restless, teasing her with the possibilities of a path I know leads only to darkness. But after a heartbeat, I relent, letting him open me, wanton and reckless in the safety of the shadows. The brightlycolored students in the sunshine outside the alley are like a snapshot of another world. Here is only fantasy.
He lifts my legs over his shoulders and drops to his knees, sliding the soaked strip of my thong to the side and lowering his mouth to my core, a symphony of soft lips and molten tongue and sharp teeth. All teasing done, he releases his hunger, drawing me ever upward in a savage spiral. My thighs tremble and my back arches under the onslaught, a shaky cry spilling from my lips, and I dig my fingers between the fan’s cool metal coils to keep from twining them in his curls and clutching him even closer.
Lost in the sensations, I swallow my voice and let go, and he takes the control I offer up and spins it into a dizzying riot of ecstasy and need. When he buries two fingers deep inside me and bites down on my clit, I come violently, gasping his name like a prayer. The tide of pleasure washes over me, and my arms falter, but he doesn’t let up. Instead, he curls his fingers, stroking my G-spot while his tongue swirls penance over my ravaged clit. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time, the intensity building to the brilliant edge of pain.
“Lyot, I can’t—oh,fuck.” The words spill out in an incoherent rush, quickly swallowed by the machines’ hum and roar. Distantly, I know it should scare me to lose control of my voice like this with him, but then he growls against my body, low and feral, and I spill over the far edge of endless orgasm and dissolve. My whole body lifts and curls around him, clinging like he’s the last piece of flotsam in a storm, and still, he works me, driving deep and merciless until I’m spent and hollow and gasping as he drinks me clean.
When he lifts his eyes to mine, his grin is wicked with triumph, and it hits me that this is amanin front of me. My cublover has grown into a jungle cat, and these games might not be so safe anymore, for his heart or mine.
Whatever he sees on my face, his eyes narrow, and he brings his fingers up and presses them messily between my lips.
