g forward, he takes my now bereft nipple into his mouth and sucks
hard, his wet hair tickling me. At the same time, his thumb stops skimming
across my other elongated nipple. Instead, he takes it between his thumb
and forefinger and tugs and twists it gently. 162 | P a g e
E L JAMES
“Ah! Christian!” I groan and buck forward on his lap. But he doesn’t stop. He
continues the slow, leisurely, agonizing tease. And my body is burning as the
pleasure takes a darker turn.
“Christian, please,” I whimper.
“Hmm,” he hums low in his chest. “I want you to come like this.”
My nipple gets a brief respite as his words caress my skin, and it’s like he’s
calling to a deep, dark part of my psyche that only he knows. When he
resumes with his teeth this time, the pleasure is almost intolerable. Moaning
loudly, I writhe on his lap, trying to find some precious friction against his
pants. I pull uselessly against my restraining panties, itching to touch him, but
I’m lost—lost in this treacherous sensation.
“Please,” I whisper, pleading, and pleasure flies through my body, from my
neck, right down to my legs, to my toes, tightening all in its wake.
“You ha一ve such beautiful breasts, Ana.” He groans. “One day I’ll fuck them.”
What? Gah! What the hell does that mean? Opening my eyes, I gape down
at him as he suckles me, my skin singing under his touch. I no longer feel my
sodden blouse, his wet hair . . . nothing except the burn. And it burns
deliciously hot and low, deep inside me, and all thought evaporates as my
body tightens and clenches . . . ready, reaching . . . pining for release. And he
doesn’t stop—teasing, pulling, driving me wild. I want . . . I want . . .
“Let go,” he breathes—and I do, loudly, my orgasm convulsing through my
body, and he stops his sweet torture and wraps his arms around me,
clutching me to him as my body spirals down from my climax. When I open
my eyes, he is gazing down at me where I rest against his chest.
“God, I love to watch you come, Ana.” His voice is f
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