Apprehension threads through my shoulders as he toys with his bracelet, loosening and setting it aside. As he reaches for his belt, my hands lash out, halting him. Paint gets on his fingers and the denim of his pants, and both his brows arch.
I’m stretched awkwardly, my balance hinging between my grip on his buckle and my knees. One wrong move and I’ll mess up the piece I’ve been working on since yesterday morning.
Clearing my throat, I consider my options. I can redo the painting if I fuck it up beyond repair. Nothing I haven’t done a hundred times before—nearly every piece I’ve created has at least two versions of itself in my attempts to perfect the craft.
Or I can let him strip. Take that step into a slightly more vulnerable place with the man who’s occupied most of my thoughts for the last few weeks.
The man who hates my family and tried to murder my father.
A man who’s made it clear that, if we did get together, the sex would be very, very good.
Phenomenal, even.
The memory of his hand between my thighs at brunch resurfaces, and warmth floods my cheeks. Short tingles radiate up and down my limbs, making me feel liquid as I recall how it felt to have someone touch me when their intent was not malicious.
How interesting that a man with so much blood on his hands is the only one who seems capable of refusing to harm me.
Still, as I slip the pin from its notch in the leather belt, there’s a little voice in my head saying yet.
He hasn’t hurt me yet.
But I ignore it, choosing instead to focus on the sound of him sucking in a breath. My fingers tremble as I unhook the buckle, slowly dragging the end through the metal square. His eyes stay on mine, wide and unblinking, like he’s trapped and can’t possibly look away.
Somehow, my chest feels the same. Caged tight and quickly running out of air.
“I was joking, love,” he rasps. The words sound forced and scratchy, like he has to reach in and tear them from his throat.
Acid bubbles in my chest. There’s something painfully erotic about our stance—him towering over me as I kneel before him, trying to… well, I’m not exactly sure what I’m trying to do.
Maintain what little power I have here, maybe. If I let him disrobe on his own, all it does is prove my discomfort.
If I take the initiative, it proves I’m okay.
Popping the fly of his jeans, I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull them down over his hips. His cock bobs free, partially erect, and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek at his size.
Far bigger than Preston even as it is now.
My clit pulses, the muscles in my thighs clenching.
Glancing up, I let his jeans pool at his feet, then push the canvas aside and sit back on my haunches, clasping my hands behind my back.
Jonas squeezes his eyes shut, drawing a stuttered breath.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing, my little puppet?”
Resentment and shame coil in my gut, and I give him a dirty look. “I’ve sucked dick before, you ass—”
His arm lashes out, one hand coming around my head, gathering my hair in a ponytail and tugging back at the base. My neck bends at an almost ninety-degree angle, and goose bumps spray down my arms and legs, making me shiver.
“It’s in your best interest to not speak of those before me.”
My mouth twitches. “Why? Ego can’t handle knowing yours isn’t the first dick I’ve seen?”
“I can handle it just fine,” he says, gripping the thick shaft with his free hand, giving it a single pump in front of me, “I just don’t want to. When my cock is in your face, I don’t want to imagine all the others you’ve taken because they no longer matter.”
“’Cause you’re so good in bed?”
Tightening his fist in my hair, he pulls back even farther so I have to press up on my knees to keep my spine from snapping. When he shifts, I feel the mushroom head brush my lips, leaving behind a salty residue as it drags across them.
“They don’t matter,” he rumbles, his voice dropping so its low vibrations echo in my chest, “because once I’m inside of you, splitting you open and filling your cunt with so much cum you choke, you won’t remember anyone else existed.”
Oh god.
My body hums, electricity thrumming through my bloodstream as he leverages my face, moving it left and right to massage the underside of his cock. As he moves me, my nose brushes his balls, and the urge to taste him becomes overwhelming.
Maybe it shouldn’t. This whole situation feels dirty, but my pussy responds in kind, pulsing wantonly as he degrades me.
“I said I wasn’t going to fuck you,” Jonas grits out, his cock growing as he continues.
“Doesn’t seem like you meant it.”
Licking my lips, I let the tip of my tongue swipe against the base of him, then flatten and drag it along the thick vein running up the middle. He grunts as I reach the crown, curling around it before he pulls me off.
“No,” he agrees, fitting himself against my mouth again. “I lied.”
Parting my lips, I let saliva pool under my tongue before easing forward, wrapping my lips around his head. He tastes clean, the scent of his natural musk making my pussy throb with anticipation.
“Do you have any idea how stunning you look on your knees?”
Pulling back, I kiss his slit, absorbing the pearly bead leaking from it. “Not as stunning as I’ll look with you down my throat.”
His fist jerks, and he grins. “Go on, then. Show me a masterpiece.”
One of my hands comes up, and I grasp him at the base, taking him back into my mouth. I work slowly, laving from side to side as I meet where I’m wrapped around him. Flattening two fingers against his pelvis, I inch deeper, gagging when his tip meets resistance.
“Bloody hell,” Jonas groans, clenching and unclenching his jaw.
As I retreat, mucus and spit leak past my lips, dribbling onto my knees and the floor. His cock is wet and sticky, and I sit forward, smearing the head over my chin, my tongue, my cheeks.
We don’t break eye contact; his irises smolder, violet flames that flick against my skin, sending waves of heat spiraling through me like a wildfire. Delirious approval lightens his features as I move back in, bobbing up and down with more vigor, adding the pumping of my hand over his skin.
“Christ, that’s—” He breaks off, choking as I swirl around his crown, sucking in shallow strokes. “Perfect, love. You feel bloody perfect.”
Pride beams through me like a lightning bolt, and I drop my hand. Pushing my palms into my knees, I redouble my efforts with no other assistance, enveloping as much of him as possible into the warm, wet tunnel of my mouth.
“Is this what you think about at night?” he taunts, adding a little force behind his grip on my hair. Am I imagining his breathlessness, or is that me? “Sucking your fiancé off while your cunt floods the floor?”
Heat scorches my cheeks, and I bring my thighs together. Wetness collects between them, and I’m pretty sure if I slid my hand south, I’d feel just how slick and swollen I am, but it’s ridiculous that he just knows.
My pride wants me to hide my attraction better. To not let him know how he affects me, but Jonas Wolfe has seen right through me since the night we met.
It’s a completely unnerving feeling, realizing you’re not as formidable as you thought.