Page 37 of Vance

He captures my lips before I can say anything else, swallowing my protests, my surprise, and the quickly waning anger that gives way to the small whimpers rising unbidden from my throat. He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m the only oxygen left in the world. He’s desperate in his devouring; his tongue sweeps through my mouth with a soft reverence that contradicts everything I know about him. This isn’t the cruel man who bends me over desks and takes me in parking garages. This isn’t the monster who demands, punishes, and controls.

This is something else. Something far more terrifying.

He pulls back from the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing ragged. “Shhh,” he whispers, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. I stare into his eyes as he shushes me, those blue pools full of a vulnerability I’ve never seen in them before. He’s always been steel and stone, impenetrable and untouchable. But tonight he looks breakable. Tonight, he looks like he needs this as much as I do. Maybe more.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips tracing my jaw, throat, and the hollow above my collarbone. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Sophia. Do you know that?”

He moves inside me, a slow, rolling thrust that drags over every sensitive nerve ending. I gasp, my back arching off the bed in a silent offering. It’s different—so different—from every other time he’s taken me. There’s no roughness in it, no punishment, no desperate race toward completion. He moves like he has all the time in the world, like he wants to feel every inch of me, like he’s memorizing the way my body yields to his.

His lips continue their downward journey, his cock sliding out of me with a wet sound that should be embarrassing but only makes me whimper at the loss. After undoing the buttons of my shirt, he kisses between my breasts. His tongue traces the valley between them as he works the clothing I stole from him off my body until I’m naked and trembling beneath his gaze.

“Vance,” I whisper, unmoored.

He settles lower, his shoulders forcing my legs wider as his breath blows hot against my inner thigh. I look down to find him staring at me—at my most intimate place—with an expression that looks dangerously like devotion. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, his palms skimming over my sides before his thumbs dust along the curve of my hips with a worshipful attention that makes me feel like something precious. Disheveled umber hair falls across his forehead, softening the hard lines of his face and the tightness of his jaw, but there’s nothing soft about the hunger in his eyes. “What you’ve always done to me?”

“Alwa—”

He lowers his mouth to me, and I cry out, my hands flying to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as his tongue traces me with slow, deliberate strokes. He’s savoring me. His movements unhurried, his groans vibrating against my pussy as he licks into me with a thoroughness that blurs my vision.

“So sweet.” His words are muffled against my sensitive flesh. “You taste like mine, sweetheart. All mine. Every drop. Every tremor. All fucking mine.”

His hands slide beneath my hips, holding me flush to his mouth as his tongue circles my clit with devastating precision before dipping even lower. He licks and teases me in a rhythm that has me panting and writhing, my heels digging into the mattress for purchase. I’ve never felt anything like this, the slow build and tender attention of a man who is thoroughly enjoying eating my pussy. Enjoying me.

He takes his time, drawing patterns with his tongue, suckling gently, hard, then gentle again, reading my body’s responses like a language he’s fluent in. When I whimper, he hums in approval. When I arch, he follows. When I try to grind against him, desperate for more, he holds me still, forcing me to accept his control, letting him worship me at his pace.

“Please,” I beg, the word torn from my throat, unrecognizable as my own. “Please…”

“Tell Daddy what you need,” he whispers breathlessly, looking up at me with dark, endless eyes, his lips and beard glistening with my arousal. “Tell me and I’ll give it to you. Anything. Everything.”

In this moment, with his mouth on me, his hands gentle and his voice rough with something that sounds like adoration, he doesn’t feel like the man who stole my life. He feels like coming home. Like the only safe place I’ve ever known… or ever want to be.

“Please… make me come, Daddy,” I whimper.

He returns to his task with renewed focus, his tongue finding my clit and circling it with maddening patience as his fingers slide into me, curling to find the spot that will push me over the edge. I’m wound tight, coiled with tension, the pleasure building so slowly that it’s almost unbearable, a wave rising inch by inch instead of crashing over me.

“That’s it,” he encourages between perfectly placed flicks of his tongue, his breath hot between my thighs. “Let go for me. Let go for Daddy.”

I come apart with a cry that echoes off the penthouse walls, my body convulsing as I pull at his hair hard enough to hurt, and my hips buck against his unwavering grip. He doesn’t stop, and I writhe against him when he doesn’t let up. He works me through the orgasm, drawing it out until tears are welling in my eyes and my legs are trembling in his tight hold. When he finally releases me, I’m limp, boneless, and utterly undone. For him…

He crawls up my body, and I taste myself on his lips—the musky tang of my desire. He’s still hard, his cock pressing insistently into my hip, but he makes no move to take his own release. Instead, he kisses me with a tenderness that breaks something inside me. His hands roam my body with the same reverent attention, tracing every curve, scar, and imperfection like he’s cataloging every curve and contour of me by feel alone.

“Mine,” he softly growls against my throat, his lips pressing against my pulse. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I breathe, the reply so automatic that it feels inevitable.

He enters me slowly, inch by inch, with his eyes locked on mine, watching every quiver of my lower lip and flutter of my lashes. When he’s fully seated, he stills and drops his forehead onto mine, his breathing ragged and warm over my lips.

“You’re mine, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “The only good thing I have in this cruel world. If I wasn’t such a selfish man, I might almost feel guilty that I’m going to tarnish you.”

He moves inside me with a rhythm that’s devastating in its gentleness. His thrusts are deep and measured as he keeps his body pressed flush against mine. I can feel every beat of his heart, every shudder of his breath. He kisses me constantly—my mouth, my jaw, my throat, my eyelids—his hands tangling in my hair as his hips roll against mine in a dance that feels less like fucking and more like…

More like…

Love.

I realize it with a jolt that steals my breath away. These are the hands of a man who adores me, not one who owns me. This is the mouth of a man who is tasting salvation, not claiming a conquest. He’s moving inside me like I’m sacred, precious, something he’s terrified of losing.

“I’m yours, Daddy,” I whimper, the words escaping before I can stop them, before I can think about what they mean, what I’m admitting, or who I’m becoming.