American Prince

He winces. “I know it looks that way. I mean, it is that way, in a sense, but you have to believe that I love you and Ash more than ever. If there was a way—”

“There’s not,” I say in a flat voice. As flat as my heart is swollen to splitting with misery. “I can’t be with you when you’re with her. You know what she did—how she hurt me. How could you?”

“I know, I know,” he groans, passing his hand over his eyes. “I know she did. I know this is hurting you now. And if I could stop it, I would.”

I step close to him, climbing onto a box of books so that we’re the same height. “You can stop it,” I say, furious. “You can stop it at any moment, but you won’t, and why is that? Is she smarter than me? More interesting than me?”

His eyes cut blue paths down to my lips, to my neck, and then back up to my eyes. “There’s no one smarter or more interesting than you,” he says.

“Then what is it, Embry? Does she taste sweeter than me? Is she softer? Tighter?”

I’m being yanked into him so fast that I don’t know it’s happening, strong hands pressing the length of my body hard against his, my position on the box meaning that I can feel his stiffness directly against my cunt. There is the heat of him, the sound of his shallow breaths pushing in and out. I realize, almost distantly, that my entire body is filled with light and warmth and want. I’m so very agonizingly wet.

“No one tastes sweeter than you,” he growls, burying his face in my neck. “No one.”

Somehow we’re kissing then, his mouth on mine, my leg hitching around his waist so I can grind myself against him. He hitches my other leg up around him too, supporting my ass with his hands, and then we’re up against the wall, and I hate him so much, I hate him so fucking much and I can’t stop kissing him, can’t stop rubbing myself against him.

“Prove it,” I gasp against his mouth. “Prove no one tastes sweeter than me.”

My thighs slide out of his hands and as my feet touch the floor, he drops to his knees, already pushing my dress up to my waist. His fingers hook into my panties, drawing them down my legs, and then his lips are soft against my bare skin.

The barest flicker of tongue against my clit.

“Sweet,” he murmurs.

And then farther down, against the lips of my pussy.

“So sweet,” he repeats.

And then he parts those lips with his fingers, exposing my wet, pink center, and gives me one long, hard lick, his tongue taking the time to swirl around the deepest part of me.

When he’s done, he looks up at me, his mouth glistening and his eyes hooded. “So fucking sweet.”

I’m undone. I’m pulling everywhere at him, his hair and shoulders and neck, grinding my pussy against his mouth, and he is just as eager to be forced as I am to force him. His mouth moves hungrily on me, switching from kissing to sucking to tongue-fucking in seamless waves that have my fingers scrabbling against the wall behind me for support. I can’t stand it, how handsome he looks all rumpled and wet-mouthed on his knees. I can’t stand how much I hate him and I can’t stand how much I love him.

He pushes a long finger into me, then two. I wish I could resist the urge to press down onto them, I wish I could stop myself from widening my legs or tossing my head or panting so hard that I see stars at the corner of my vision. But goddammit, Embry owes me this. He owes me time on his knees, he owes me his worship and devotion.

He moans every now and then—when his tongue sweeps against a particularly sweet spot or when I buck my hips against his face. He moans as if he’s getting off, even though he has one hand hard at work inside me and the other guiding my leg over his shoulder to open me wider to him, and so I know his cock is achingly untouched right now. The mental image makes my mouth water, sends dual shocks of need and power through me. The need to fuck is strong, but his worshipping me without getting anything in return is so delicious I can’t stand it. Instead, I fist his hair harder, rock against him faster, and hiss to him through my teeth.

“That’s right, that’s where you belong,” I say. My cruel words make him moan even more, and he sends his tongue and fingers in flickering presses in all the right places. Wet and sucking over my clit, thick in my entrance, massaging deeper inside.

“Make me come,” I demand breathlessly, my hands woven deep in his hair and holding his face fast to my cunt. “Make me come.”

He does, so skillfully that every step of the way feels like the best kind of agony—the glow in my chest, the tight pull in my belly, the tension in my lower thighs. Each thing builds on top of the other and builds and builds, and I watch his head move between my legs, my betrayed feelings and my pleasure twisting so tightly together I can’t unwind them, and then it doesn’t matter because I’m coming, coming, coming. His mouth coaxes it out of me, and I’m quivering, clenching, fluttering, whimpering, his blue eyes pinned to my face the whole time.

I am lost in that gaze, lost to the waves deep inside myself, and for a moment, everything fades except the present moment. The sight of a handsome man on his knees, his willing mouth put to good use. The feeling of wet flesh and a wetter tongue. The connection between us that no amount of time and violence and loving other people has been able to destroy.

When I finish, he stands up without looking at me, gently smoothing the skirt of my dress down to my knees with the experienced hand of someone who knows good fabric. He takes his time with it, and I let him, because I know once he’s done, then the moment is over. I’m aware that my phone is vibrating on the table but I ignore it, too unwilling to let this truce end. But it must, as all things do.