Page 106 of Filthy Twisted Devil

The way Luke touches me is so careful and sure, though—like he’s been planning for this. Maybe he has. We’ve danced close enough to the line already. I know I’ve thought about what it would be like with him hundreds of times in the past few months alone. His certainty keeps my nerves from overwhelming me.

I know he’ll be true to his word. He’ll make this good for me.

“Have I ever told you how stunning you are?” he whispers between hot kisses over my neck. “I can’t stop watching you when you’re in the room with me. I love the way that you move so gracefully, like you know exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

I shiver. The truth is, I have noticed how his eyes follow me if I have to walk away from him at a party. I love it—like I’m the single most important person to him.

He unclasps my bra and slides it off my arms. He groans when he pulls his mouth away from my skin like it pains him to stop kissing me, and he carefully eases me back onto the bed. He slides my underwear down my legs, his fingers grazing along my skin and sending pulses of heat between my legs.

When he’s finished, he stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at me.

“Fucking unreal,” he whispers.

He doesn’t rush. He stands there and looks at me the way he looks at his rarest whiskey—like something he’s waited years to open and intends to savor.

He pulls off his pajama pants, and my mouth waters at the sight of his thick, hard cock. I wish I had time to taste every inch of him, but I know instinctively that Luke’s going to take control tonight. He’ll decide what I need, and honestly, it’s a relief. I’m happy to hand over the choices to him, just for now.

He crawls slowly up my body, his lips, tongue, and teeth drawing a path up the inside of my legs until my thighs are trembling. He chuckles once he stops, right below my pussy.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, rubbing a knuckle across my slickness. “So wet for me already.”

I nod. My body reacts so quickly to him now. It’s like my pussy is just as eager for him as I am.

He stays there, kissing my thighs and hipbones while he spreads my wetness up over my clit. His touch is featherlight, carefully teasing out my desire with every touch. It’s never too much. In fact, it has me wriggling against his hand, craving more. When I know how good he can make me feel, the tease just isn’t enough.

It’s all on purpose, I realize with a start. He drawing me out, making me need him more and more until, when he finally presses inside me, I’m desperate for it.

Diabolical genius.

Thank god I waited for him.

My inner walls clench around nothing. I need more. I whine pathetically, and Luke chuckles. I want to cry when he stops kissing my thigh and crawls up, propping his weight up on one arm while still letting me feel the weight of him.

He sucks two fingers into his mouth, and the sight makes my thighs press together. When he pulls his fingers out, they’re shiny with his spit. He presses one inside me, then another, meeting no resistance. He grins.

“Oh, wildflower, you want this so badly, don’t you?” The cocky words make me clench around his fingers, and his grin widens. “Fuck. The way you’re squeezing around my fingers is going to destroy me.”

He fucks me with his fingers, slowly and mercilessly. I’m dying for him to touch my clit, to stoke the desire that’s already building in me like glowing, crackling embers. No matter how much I writhe under his touch, he doesn’t give it to me. He makes it torturously slow, the heat consuming me by inches.

“I know you want more, wildflower,” he murmurs. “I’ll give it to you when I think you’re ready. I told you I’d make this good, and I meant it.”

I whimper, but I can’t deny that I love the way he talks to me. I love how he presses one hand against my hip to hold me down, the way he praises me, the way he stays in perfect control. It’s not out of selfish desire—it’s because he cares about how it feels for me. When he takes control, he knows he can make it good.

So much of my life is about holding details in my head, making things work, anticipating mistakes. It feels so good to have one place where I can just let go.

Luke’s cock is hard against my leg, a reminder of what’s going to replace those two fingers. It might scare me if I wasn’t so wet, I’m dripping on his hand. I want more. I need to feel the fullness I’ve never gotten.

He must pull the thought right out of my head, because Luke removes his fingers and shifts so he’s lying over me.

“We can still stop,” he reminds me. “Say the word, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

“Luke.” I slide my hands up his chest. “If you stop now, I might die.”

He lets out a low chuckle as he fists his long, thick cock and drags his tip over my clit. A tease of a touch, driving up the desire in my blood more and more. When he finally lines himself up with my entrance, he hesitates, not going any further.

“Why are you stopping?” I ask, though it sounds more like I’m begging. At this point, I’m desperate—past pride, past performance, past anything but the need to have him inside me.

Luke’s eyes meet mine, and some fleeting emotion flashes across them. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am—that doing this will make our impending breakup immeasurably harder. That this is a line that once crossed cannot be uncrossed.