She was shaking. Full-body tremors that started in her thighs and radiated outward. His other hand found her breast through the fabric of her shirt, his thumb rubbing circles over her nipple, and the dual sensation — his finger inside her, his hand on her breast, his eyes on her face — was too much. Too much and not enough and she was going to come apart.
"I'm close," she gasped. "Caldan, I'm — don't stop, please don't—"
He pulled out.
The scream that tore from her was not pleasure. It was fury.
"What are you—"
He brought his finger to his mouth. Slid it past his lips. Closed his eyes. And the sound he made — low, guttural, a groan that came from somewhere so deep it sounded like pain — made her clench around nothing.
"You taste like mine," he said. His eyes opened. Gold and black and burning. "Like you were made for my mouth."
