Page 48 of Spearcrest Prince

“I’ll be cold,” I tell him. He catches my earlobe between his teeth and bites down lightly. I close my eyes with a shudder. “I should go.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” he rasps against my ear. “Stay.”

I sigh as he kisses down my neck, sucking on the sensitive skin. There are so many reasons I shouldn’t stay, but I can’t think of one. He tugs on my hoodie, pulling it over my head. Underneath it, my thin bralette is wet too, my nipples hard from the cold. Sev’s eyes darken as he gazes at them.

Instead of taking my bra off, he pushes me down into a sitting position at the edge of his bed and kneels between my legs. He takes my waist in his hands, pulls me towards him, and presses his mouth to the hollow place between my collarbones. He kisses a wet, warm line down my chest, between my breasts, until I can’t help but arch into him, every nerve alive with sensation. My entire body is a taut violin string, singing with want.

He finally pulls down my bra straps, exposing my breasts. They’re cold and sodden, and I suppress a shiver. Sev looks up with a lazy grin.

“Don’t worry, trésor.” He palms my breasts, rubbing his thumbs over the nipples. “I’ll warm you right up.” He kisses each breast tenderly. “I’ll get you nice and hot andwet.”

“Stop,” I gasp, my face burning with embarrassment.

“Stop what?” His tone is arrogant. He sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, and I let out a whimper. “Stop this?” His mouth moves to my other nipple. He licks it, his tongue soft and hot. I’m so turned on I ache. “Or this?”

“Stop talking,” I hiss. I unhook my bra and throw it aside. Grabbing his paint-smeared jumper, I pull it over his head. He lets me, laughing as I pull on his T-shirt. Underneath it, his skin is smooth and constellated with dark beauty spots. I grab his shoulders. “Come on.”

I try to pull him up, but he resists, kissing me instead.

“No, trésor,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Not yet.” He pushes me onto my back with a firm hand and drags my shorts down my hips. “I want to taste you.” He kisses my lower stomach, my hips, my inner thighs. “I want to taste how wet you are.”

“Please,” I choke out, covering my eyes with my hands, my hips squirming in his grip. I’m so turned on I feel like I could come just from his words. “Stop talking.”

“No.” He bites lightly on my inner thigh and laughs, low and devious. “I want to fuck you with my tongue and make you come so hard I send you back to the stars.”

And then he does exactly that.

In a few short and exquisite minutes, I learn exactly why Séverin Montcroix walks the world with such self-assurance. He’s not just beautiful and charismatic or talented at photography. He’s also incredibly skilled with his mouth.

He feasts on me with eagerness and abandon, like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that can keep him alive. He licks and sucks and responds to every noise of pleasure I make like it’s a holy commandment.

When I’m so close to orgasm that my hips grow still and my back arches off the bed, he lets out a low, humming laugh and works me with his fingers until I’m whimpering, every muscle tensed.

Then he licks me, deep and slow and rhythmical, and I come so hard my entire body shakes. My hips buck, but Séverin keeps me firmly pinned with one hand, working me with his fingers and tongue until I slump against him, a wet, shuddering mess.

He looks up at me. His lips and chin are wet, the lines of paint still crossing his forehead and cheeks. His eyes are bright and wild, his feral grin dripping with arrogance and danger.

“Tu aimes ça?” he asks roughly.

“Qu—quoi?” I ask, dazed with pleasure, still trembling all over.

“My langue, my bouche. Ma tête entre tes cuisses?” His grin widens. “Tu aimes ça?”

“Oui,” I whisper.

“You should never have rejected me, then,” he says, wiping his hand across his mouth and rocking up to his feet.

“I didn’t reject you.” I prop myself up on my elbows with a frown. “You were drunk.”

“We’re drunk now,” he points out.

I frown. “No, we’re not.” I sit up. “Why are you starting a fight?”

“I’m not starting a fight.” He shrugs. “I just want you to admit you were wrong for rejecting me.”

“Are you serious?” I get to my feet, my shaking legs almost buckling under me. “I can’t believe you’re doing this right now. You’re really choosing your pride over sex?”

“I’m not choosing anything,” he says with a hateful little smirk. “Admit you were wrong, and then we can fuck.”

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