Mateo's lips still lingered against Bambi's, his kiss deep and demanding, swallowing her weak protests as his fingers traced the damp heat between her thighs. She shuddered, her body arching into him despite the lingering sting of his words from last night. His touch was a drug, and she was already drunk on it—her mind screaming no, but her body melting, her hips rolling into his palm with a betraying whimper.
Then, just as she was about to surrender completely, he pulled back.
His dark eyes burned into hers, his breath ragged, his stubble rough against her flushed skin. His calloused fingers slid from her thigh to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. "Let me show you," he murmured, his voice a low, rough promise. Before she could protest—before she could even think—his hands were on her waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. The cool morning air hit her bare legs as he guided her to the edge of the bed, her nightgown riding up to expose her trembling thighs.
Bambi's pulse hammered in her throat. She should stop this. She should. But the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth hunger, worth sin—made her breath catch. His grip tightened just enough to remind her who was in control, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips as he sank to his knees before her.
The first press of his lips against her inner thigh made her gasp. His stubble scraped delicately, sending shivers up her spine, and when his tongue followed—the wet, hot stroke of it—she clenched her fists in the rumpled sheets. "Mateo—" His name came out broken, half plea, half warning.
He didn't answer. Didn't need to.
His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the thin fabric of her nightgown higher, baring her to the dim morning light. The cool air kissed her damp folds, and she squirmed, her body already aching, already needy. Then his breath ghosted over her, so close she could feel the shape of his words against her skin. "So fucking pretty," he growled, his voice vibrating against her. "All pink and wet for me already."
Bambi's face burned. She should be ashamed. Should push him away. But when his tongue finally touched her—one slow, deliberate lick from her entrance to her clit—her back arched off the bed, a broken moan tearing from her throat. His hands clamped down on her hips, holding her still as he did it again. And again. Each stroke deeper, each one more relentless, until her thighs were trembling and her fingers were tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer even as she whimpered, "Too much—"
"Never enough," .