Page 61 of Cruel Kiss

"Yes, Ronan, God,yes,take them off before I?—"

He takes them off.

And then his mouth is on me and every clever thing I was ever going to say dies in my throat. I fall back onto my elbows and bite down on my own wrist. He holds my hips still with those scarred hands, patient and merciless, as he parts my lips and licks my entire seam.

"You taste," he says against me, "like every night I've been lying awake one door down."

I fist my hand in his hair, but I just hold on, because I'm losing, I've been losing all night, I lost the second I stood on the creakyboard. He devours me right to the edge and then he stops. I nearly kill him, until he laughs, quiet, wicked, and does it again.

He builds me back up slow. His tongue works me in flat, wide strokes, then narrows to my clit. His hands are so strong that I can't do anything but take it.

The more I whine, the more he hums against me. The hums add to the contractions, and then his fingers join the party, curling just below his hungry lips. He sets a rhythm, his fingers and his tongue moving together, and I lose track of everything else.

I bite down harder on my wrist. It feels like I'm conceding something embarrassing if I moan.

"Let go," he says against me, not stopping. "Be quiet, but let go. You're safe with me."

I can't hold it back. It rolls up through me, and I come apart with his name muffled against my own arm, my thighs shaking around his head, one hand still fisted in his thick hair.

By the time he lets me finish twitching, I've got the pillow he handed me stuffed against my mouth. I've got tears in my eyes from the sheer effort of staying silent.

He crawls up over me. His forehead comes down to mine. He shoves the sweatpants down and I get my hands on him, all of his endless thickness. I pull him toward me, and he catches my wrist.

"There's a condom in the?—"

"I don't care."

"Calista."

"We didn't at the lake."

He goes still. His eyes search mine. "That was different," he says. "That was?—"

"I know what it was." I push up and kiss him, softer this time, tasting myself on his lips. "This is justthis. Okay? I need it. But I don't want—" I hesitate, knowing even as I say it how harsh it is. "I don't want anything between us. It has to stay this way. I can't bear it if I tried the real thing again."

He looks at me for a long moment.

"Okay," he says.

And then he's inside me, slow and huge, I have to bite the pillow again so I don't scream. He keeps one hand cradling the back of my head and the other braced beside my shoulder, and he moves, careful, then not so careful, then not careful at all.

"Look at me," he orders. "Not God. Not the ceiling. Me."

"You're so—" I gasp as he hits a deep spot. "—arrogant."

"Because you, my queen, make me feel like a fucking king. Now, be quiet and take my cock."

I take it. I take all of it, and I keep my eyes open the whole time even though it would be easier to close them, because he wants me looking at him and I'm too far gone to deny him anything. When I come the second time, it's with his name in my mouth, muffled against his shoulder. He follows me over a few seconds later with mine tangled up in the Russian, thekotyonokhe swears he'd stop calling me.

When it's all over, the hate fuck to end all hate fucks, we lie cuddling like there's nothing hateful about it at all. Down the hall, a small foot hits the floor and pads to a bathroom and padsback. We both freeze, listening, until the door clicks and the house goes quiet again.

I sit up and find my shorts, feeling woozy and limp. The shirt somehow ended up over the lamp, so I shrug that back on.

"So," I say, all business, though it comes out ruined and thick. "New terms."

He props himself up on one elbow. Even like this, wrecked and half in the dark, he looks like he's the one in charge. "I'm listening."

"This was—" I gesture between us. "This is a physical thing. That's all. My body had a complaint and we resolved the complaint."