Page 93 of Always Been His

My back arches off the piano, and my hand flies out, hitting the keys in a discordant crash that fills the room with sound. His laugh vibrates against my clit, and I’m gasping, my other hand fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even though he’s already there, already everywhere.

“Gray—”

“Shh.” His tongue traces patterns I can’t name, dipping inside me and then back up, circling my clit with a pressure that’s just shy of enough, always just shy. “I’m going to take my time. I’ve been thinking about this, about tasting you on this piano, about making you come so hard you leave handprints in the wood.”

His fingers replace his tongue, two of them sliding inside me while his mouth moves back to my clit, and the combination makes my vision white out at the edges. I’m making sounds I don’t recognize. My free hand slams against the piano keys again, a minor chord that matches the tension coiling tighter in my stomach, and he groans against me like the music is doing something for him too.

“This cunt…” His lips are shiny with me. “…is the most perfect thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. Do you understand that? I would give up every meal for the rest of my life if I could survive on this.”

“That’s—” His fingers crook inside me, and I can’t finish.

“That’s what?”

“Ridiculous,” I gasp.

“What’s ridiculous is how much I want you. All the time. Every second.” He thrusts his fingers deeper, curling them just right. “I want you when I’m in meetings. I want you when I’m traveling. I want you when I’m standing in the kitchen drinking coffee in the morning, and you’re still asleep upstairs. I have to physically stop myself from coming up there and waking you with my tongue.”

“Gray, please…”

“Please what?”

“Please let me come.”

He stops.

I make a sound that isn’t dignified. My hips lift off the piano, chasing his mouth, and he presses a palm flat against my stomach to hold me down.

“Not yet,” he says. “You’ll come when I say you can come. You’ll come when I’m inside you. I want to feel it. I want to feel every pulse, every clench, every aftershock. I want you to milk me dry, Sienna, and I want to watch your face while you do it.”

He stands up.

His fingers leave me empty, aching, and I watch him undo his belt with the kind of focused intensity that makes my mouth water. The leather slides through the buckle. The button on his trousers pops. The zipper rasps down.

“Your suit will be ruined,” I say, and my voice sounds wrecked already.

“This suit covered in your cum would only make it better.”

He pulls himself free, and the sight of him,thick and hard and already slick at the tip,makes me clench around nothing.

“Fuck, you look so ready for me baby,” he groans. His hand wraps around himself, stroking once, twice, and his head falls back for just a second, his jaw tight.

He steps between my thighs. The tip of him presses against my entrance, and he pauses there, looking down at me with an expression that’s half wonder and half possession, like he still can’t believe I’m real, like he’s memorizing this moment to pull out later when he needs it.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too, now please⁠—”

He pushes inside.

One slow, steady stroke that makes me feel impossibly full, stretched around him in a way that borders on too much but never crosses the line. My mouth opens. No sound comes out. My fingers scrabble against the polished wood, finding no purchase, and then he’s buried to the hilt and we’re both frozen there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

“Look at me,” he says.

I do, my eyes almost crossing.

“You feel that?” He pulls back an inch, pushes back in. “You feel how perfectly you take me? This cunt was made for me. Every inch of you was made for me.”

“Gray—”