Page 154 of The Lies We Play

I don’t hesitate.

I lick her from the bottom to her clit, and she makes this small, strangled sound, almost a sob, as if pleasure has caught her off guard and she resents me for being right about her body.

Fuck.

I do it again, slower, flattening my tongue, making it wet and deep, learning the exact pressure that makes her legs tense around my shoulders. Her hand tightens in my hair. Her hips lift once, then stop, like she has ordered herself to behave and her body has filed an objection.

That is so Livia, it nearly ruins me.

“Creed,” she breathes.

My name doesn't sound like my name when she says it like that. It sounds like a warning. A plea. A document signed in a language neither of us should understand this quickly.

I use my thumbs to spread her open and look at her.

A mistake.

A necessary one.

She goes still beneath my gaze. Not from shame. From being seen. There is a difference, and the difference makes my chest ache in a place I don’t like anyone touching. Her thighs tremble against my forearms. Her fingers flex in my hair, then ease, then tighten again. She is fighting the urge to cover herself. Fighting harder not to ask if I like what I see.

I answer before she can turn vulnerability into sarcasm.

“You’re perfect.” I wrap my arms under her thighs and pull her to the edge of the bed.

She gasps, a soft broken intake, and I bury my face in her.

The first taste of her nearly ends my restraint.

She is hot and slick against my tongue, and my body reacts with a violence I keep locked beneath posture and cuff links. I suck her clit softly at first, then harder when her thighs jerk, then soft again when she makes a wounded little sound. I test. Adjust. Listen. Learn her by every breath she fails to hide.

This is where I understand the real danger.

Not that I want her.

I already knew that.

The danger is that I want to be good for her. Not impressive. Not useful. Not the man with the answer, the car, the check, the private doctor, the key card, the solution.

Good—for her.

I slide one finger inside her.

She arches.

The sound she makes turns my name into something ruined.

I add a second finger, curl them up, and she comes apart by inches at first. A breath. A shake. Her hand over her mouth again, as if she can keep the need in if she contains the sound.

I pull away just enough to say, “No.”

Her eyes snap to mine.

I don't smile. I can’t.

“Let me hear you, baby,” I beg.

Then I move my fingers again. Her head falls back. Her hips lift. Her thighs close around me like she means to keep me there forever, and I decide, with alarming calm, that I would let her.