Chapter Five

He didn't give me time to breathe.

Callan's mouth closed over my breast, hot and wet, and the sound that tore out of me wasn't one I recognized. His tongue circled my nipple, flicked it, then sucked hard enough that my back bowed off the mattress.

"Callan..."

"Louder," he said against my skin. "No one's coming. No one's listening but me."

I hated how fast I obeyed. He moved to the other breast, teeth grazing, tongue dragging, while his hand shoved my thighs apart. Months of lying beside a man who turned his back, and here was Callan Whitfield, the coldest man alive, devouring me like I was the only thing he'd ever wanted.

He kissed down my stomach, slow and deliberate. His breath touched the inside of my thigh and I stopped breathing altogether.

"Look at me," he ordered.

I did. He held my eyes as his mouth found my pussy.

My cry cracked the quiet of the suite. His tongue dragged through me in long, merciless strokes, then circled my clit in slow, tight circles that had my fingers flying into his hair. Then his hand joined in. Two fingers pushed inside me, curling, pumping in rhythm with his tongue, and the double sensation wrecked me.

"Oh God, Callan, right there, right there..."

I could feel myself throbbing around his fingers, wet and desperate, my hips rolling up against his mouth with no shame left in me. The pressure climbed so fast it frightened me.

"Don't stop," I gasped. "Please, I'm so close, don't..."

He stopped.

I nearly sobbed. He pulled his fingers out and crawled up my body, his mouth glistening with me, eyes black with hunger. He'd done it on purpose.

"You wanted to prove you knew what you were doing," he murmured. "So tell me what you want."

"You."

"Be specific."

Heat flooded my face, but the shame felt distant, like it belonged to a woman I'd left behind at the villa. "I want your cock inside me."

"Not yet."

He settled between my legs, and I felt the thick, hot head of his cock slide through my wetness, rubbing against my clit, then dragging down to my entrance. He pressed just the tip in, only an inch, and pulled back. Again. And again. My pussy clenched around nothing, aching, empty.

"Callan, please." My voice broke. "Please, I can't, I need you inside me, I'm begging you."

"Say it again."

"Please. Please, fuck me."

His breath hitched, and for a second I thought I'd broken him. But he only smiled, dark and slow, and pressed the same two fingers, still slick with me, against my lips.

"Open. Taste how ready you are."

I opened. He pushed them into my mouth and I sucked, tasting myself on his skin, my tongue curling around them while he watched. And then he drove into me in one deep, slow thrust that stole every sound I had.

I screamed around his fingers.

He filled me completely, stretching me, and he held still, letting me feel every inch. My pussy squeezed around him, greedy, shaking. Nothing in the last five months had felt like this. Nothing in four years had felt like this.

"Look at you," he rasped, starting to move. "Sucking my fingers while I fuck you. Taking all of it."

I could only moan, the sound wet and muffled. Every thrust hit deep, somewhere I'd forgotten I had. My eyes rolled back, my thighs locked around his hips. His pace built, harder and faster, the bed slamming against the wall, my cries climbing with every stroke.

He pulled his fingers free and caught my jaw. "Say my name."

"Callan!"

"Again."

"Callan, oh fuck, Callan..."

My legs began to shake. The pleasure coiled so tight it hurt, and when it broke I came with a shattered cry, my pussy clamping down on his cock, my whole body convulsing. He didn't slow. He fucked me straight through it, relentless, hands bruising my hips, groaning low in his throat.

"I'm not done with you," he said.

He flipped me onto my hands and knees before I could think. His palm slid down my spine and gripped my hip, and he pushed into me from behind, deeper than before. My arms buckled. My face hit the pillow and a raw, helpless moan spilled out.

"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, there, don't stop, fuck, don't stop..."

His hand wound into my hair, pulling my head back, and he took me hard, every stroke slapping against my ass, every one making me whimper. I should have felt ashamed. I was a married woman on my knees for my husband's uncle, moaning his name while my phone buzzed on the floor.

I didn't care. God help me, I didn't care at all. I shoved back against him, meeting every thrust, wanting more, wanting everything.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it. You've been starving, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"So have I."

The admission, rough and unguarded, shot through me like lightning. He wasn't calculating. He wasn't the ruler of the Whitfield family. He was a man who hadn't been touched in too long, fucking me like he'd been waiting years.

His rhythm turned ragged. His hand slid around my hip, fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, and the pleasure crashed over me again, so intense my vision whitened. I came with his name on my lips, clenching around him, trembling, and felt him follow with a hoarse groan, his cock pulsing deep inside me, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades.

We collapsed together, tangled and gasping, sweat cooling on our skin.

Neither of us spoke.

Somewhere on the floor, my phone buzzed once more, then went still.