“No panties?” He groans, eyes boring into mine. “You tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?”
A giggle slips free but it dies on my tongue when his fingers find my soaked clit, circling it with enough pressure to have me trembling all over again.
And when he sinks one inside me, thick and perfect, we both moan. I fall forward, catching myself on his shoulders and stare down at the space between my thighs where Kade is lazily finger-fucking me.
I clench, the ache inside me that never seems to disappear, no matter how many times I come by myself, already alive and throbbing again.
“Look how wet you are, Georgia,” he says, voice guttural as he slips free and holds up his finger, slick and glistening. “You’re dripping all over the place.”
“I’m always this wet when you’re around,” I whisper, cheeks burning as we stare at the wetness and I silently wonder if he’s going to taste it.
Tasteme.
“That’s a dangerous thing to tell a man,” he rasps. “Very fuckin’ dangerous.”
And in true Kade fashion, he blows my mind by doing the exact opposite of what I expect him to do.
Some men would ignore that wet, sticky finger entirely. Some would bring it to their mouths and suck the flavor from their skin.
But this man,my man, does neither.
Instead, he brings that finger up and paints it across my lips slowly, pupils dilated, eyes heavy and chest vibrating with a groan.
“How do you taste, freckles?”
A whimper escapes me, skin prickling with awareness as I drag my tongue across my top and bottom lip and swallow.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, dragging my nails down his chest, reveling in the goosebumps that break out under my hands. “Why don’t you try me for yourself?”
His fingers drop between my thighs again, and he doesn’t hesitate to thrust two inside me, curving them to hit my G-spot. I arch against him with a cry.
“Take the fuckin’ shirt off, darlin’. Wanna see your pretty tits bounce while you ride my face,” he demands, slipping free from my core and pushing me to my feet.
My mouth falls open, knees damn near buckling beneath me at the whiplash. “What?”
But he’s already shifting, sliding down the wide couch so he’s flat on his back. He dips a hand into his pants, slowly stroking himself while he watches me.
I bite my lip, and glance at the back wall of windows. “What if somebody sees?”
“Who the fuck would be out back?” He grunts, brows furrowed.
“I don’t know.” My hands flap, heart racing. “Your friends? Your family?”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Barely six in the morning, baby. Anyone’s creepin’ outside my windows this early, they’re gonna get a fuck of a lot more than a show.”
“Like?” I breathe, fingers dancing at the hem of the shirt.
“My fist in their fuckin’ faces. Now lose the shirt.”
Before I can let myself overthink anything, I whip my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor.
Kade goes utterly still.
His hand freezes inside his pants, the slow, rhythmic drag of his palm halting as his eyes eat up every inch of me like he’s starving.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Georgia…”
The way he says my name, hoarse and shocked, like it’s the answer to every question he’s never asked, makes my knees tremble and my throat tight.
