“That’s it, honey,” Henry says. “Fuck what I said earlier. I think I want everyone still at the party to hear you. I want them to know who is going to make you finish all over these sheets.”

“Henry,” I beg, relaxing enough to get past my second knuckle.

His lips find their way back to mine, and it feels like a lifetime passed without them. We tango back and forth, falling into a rhythm only long-time lovers might know. I part my mouth, his tongue glides over my teeth, a savage assault on all my senses.

His scent—a mix of spices and the whiskey he was sipping on earlier.

His touch on my leg—alternating between soft and tentative to rough and unyielding.

His sounds—whispered encouragement and a gentle “that’s my girl” ringing in my ear.

Him.

Everywhere.

I circle my clit with my thumb, running over the bundle of nerves and jolting at the connection. I’m seconds away from giving in. Seconds away from surrendering to ecstasy. Seconds away from soaring to the stratosphere, when I feel a tap on the inside of my wrist, halting my motions.

“Let me taste,” Henry begs hoarsely, bringing my hand to his mouth. His tongue runs up the length of my finger, from the base of my palm to my fingertip, hooded eyes never leaving mine. “I need more, Emma.” He kisses down my stomach, a devilish path with only one finish line. “It’s not enough.” Pushing my thighs apart with a quick flick of his wrist, he looks up from between my legs, waiting. “It’ll never be enough.”

My pulse flutters at his sensitivity and patience, even in the heat of the passionate moment. I nod once, conveying my acceptance of any destruction he might bring my way.

Seconds pass, and then his fingers trace over my slit, dipping just inside my pussy, but barely entering.

“Look how beautiful you are.” He kisses near my bikini line, taunting me. Teasing me. “You’re practically leaking, Emma. So perfect and ready. Just for me.”

Without warning, his pointer finger pushes deep into me, replacing my own, and I almost combust.

My vision explodes, white spots forming.

My hands fly out to grab onto something stable—his sturdy shoulders. His hair. His forearms. I’m ready to jump from the highest cliff and soar toward the sun.

“Just for you,” I repeat, grinding unabashedly on his finger.

“Fuck, Emma. You’re so tight. I wish you could see how you’re pulling me in. You need this, don’t you? Do you want to ride my finger and use me, or let me do the work?”

“You. Work.”

He pulls his digit all the way out for the briefest of moments before spearing me again. My back rises off the mattress, hands digging into his hair, twisting the onyx locks and holding on.