Page 38 of Born in Fire
He explores me thoroughly, like he’s learning a new language. His tongue traces my folds, dips inside me, circles my clit withmaddening precision. His hands hold my thighs apart, thumbs occasionally stroking the crease where leg meets torso. When he sucks gently on my clit, I nearly come off the couch.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, hips bucking against his mouth. “Dorian, I—”
He hums against me, the vibration sending pleasure spiraling through my body. One hand leaves my thigh, and I feel a finger circling my entrance, gathering wetness before sliding inside. The dual sensation—his mouth on my clit, his finger curling inside me—pushes me rapidly toward the edge.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, stretching me deliciously. “Let go, Juno. I’ve got you.”
Something about those words—I’ve got you—breaks the last of my restraint. Pleasure crashes over me in waves, my inner muscles clenching around his fingers as I cry out his name. He guides me through it gently, prolonging my orgasm until I’m gasping, oversensitive.
As I come down, he kisses his way up my body—hipbone, navel, ribs, the valley between my breasts, collarbone, throat, jaw. By the time he reaches my mouth, I’m ready for him again, desire rebuilding despite the lingering aftershocks.
I taste myself on his lips as we kiss, and rather than being uncomfortable, it feels profoundly intimate. I reach between us, finding his cock hard and hot in my hand. He groans into my mouth as I stroke him, learning the feel of him—the velvet softness over steel hardness, the slight ridge beneath the head that makes his breath catch when I run my thumb over it.
“I want you inside me,” I whisper against his lips. “I want to feel you.”
His eyes meet mine, searching. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.” And it’s true. This doesn’t feel like my usual hesitation, the need to please that hasguided too many of my past decisions. This is pure desire—my own, not borrowed or manufactured.
He nods, then pauses. “Protection?”
Another point in his favor—the fact that he asks, that it matters to him.
“Nightstand drawer,” I tell him. “I’m also on birth control.” For so long, it has felt pointless to have these precautions in my life, but right now, I’m grateful for them. So damn grateful.
While he retrieves a condom, I take a moment to appreciate the view—the play of muscles in his broad back, the firm curve of his ass.
Holy shit, he’s like some kind of god!
I have to suppress a small grin of delight at the fact that all that gorgeous manliness is mine to explore. To enjoy. Tyler may have been attractive, but Dorian is next level. Almost inhumanly perfect.
When he turns, sheathing himself with efficient movements, I drink in the sight of his rock-hard cock. The knowledge that it’s for me—because of me—is heady.
He rejoins me on the couch, but instead of covering my body with his, he pulls me onto his lap, my knees on either side of his hips. The position puts me in control—another gift, another choice he’s offering.
I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch is delicious, bordering on too much, but never crossing that line. His hands grip my hips, not guiding, just steadying. His eyes are locked on mine, watching for any sign of discomfort.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes as I take him fully, sealed tight against him. “So tight. So perfect.”
I roll my hips experimentally, watching his face as pleasure washes over it. The power I feel in that moment is intoxicating—knowing I can bring him pleasure, that my body affects his as profoundly as his affects mine.
We start to move together, finding a rhythm that builds slowly. I rise and fall on his length, each downward movement sending sparks of pleasure through my body. His hands roam freely—cupping my breasts, tracing my spine, gripping my ass to pull me tighter against him. His mouth finds my neck, my ear, my lips, kissing and nipping as we rock together.
“God, Juno,” he groans, his voice strained with the effort of restraint. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”
His words wash over me, becoming part of the sensation building within me. I’ve never felt this connected during sex, so in touch with my own body, or attuned to another person’s pleasure. Every movement, every touch, every sound feels significant.
The tension builds steadily, a coiling spring low in my belly. Dorian must sense it because one hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit. The added stimulation makes me gasp, my rhythm faltering.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his other arm wrapping around my back to support me. “I can feel how close you are. Come for me, stargazer.”
The endearment—so tender, so specific to us—pushes me over the edge. Pleasure explodes outward from my core, radiating through every cell in my body. I cry out, clenching rhythmically around him as wave after wave crashes through me.
My orgasm triggers his. With a guttural sound that’s almost a growl, he thrusts up into me, his whole body tensing beneath mine as he finds his release. I feel the pulse of him inside me, even through the condom, and it prolongs my own pleasure until I’m trembling with the intensity of it.
For long moments, we stay joined, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air. His hands stroke my back in long, soothing motions. My fingers trace patterns on his shoulders,marveling at the unusual warmth of his skin. Neither of us seems ready to break the connection.
Eventually, though, practicality wins out. He lifts me gently, slipping free of my body with a shared murmur of regret. He disposes of the condom while I stretch, feeling deliciously used in all the best ways. When he returns, he pulls me against his chest, arranging us so that we’re lying face-to-face on the couch.
