Chapter 13 Valencia The soup sat on the kitchen stove, cold and forgotten as I began kissing this man. I had long ago left the lips and was traveling down through his neck and collarbone already. He was still for a while before his hands gripped me too tight and then he pushed me further up on the kitchen counter, his hands digging into the inside of my thighs. "Aah," I let out a small whimper as I let my hands roam over that ripped body that he had only shown me once in a cruel way of torture. He had sent me a pic of himself just in a towel and ever since then I had wondered how it would feel to roam my hands all over him. I just didn't know the day would arrive so soon. Back in my childhood, I was taught to be prim and polite, the perfect girl who would not even dare to look at the boys joining me for the playdates. But I had left that girl behind at my home. And another one had taken her place. A one who was focused too much on work and making a name for herself in this world of alphas who didn't give a shit about a female. However, I still yearned for company. And I had not felt that gaping hole in my life until that day when I spotted Ian in Wolves and Whiskey. My playdates and the pressure of being picked by some alpha's son I didn't even know the name of-those memories felt like ghostly shadows now. Faint. Powerless. Ian was here, real and solid, and the way his hands were gripping me made it impossible to think about anything else. His mouth met mine again, more demanding this time, coaxing mine open with an insistence that sent my pulse skittering. He tasted like heat and the faintest hint of spice from the soup we'd forgotten. But that wasn't what I was hungry for. My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, and he growled low in his throat like it awakened something primal in him. "You're playing with fire," he murmured, voice thick with restraint as his lips traced the edge of my jaw. "Maybe I want to get burned," I whispered, my breath shivering against his skin. That did something to him. He spun us slightly so my back was pressed to the fridge, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the fire trailing his hands. He made quick work of unbuttoning my blouse, but not in a rushed way. He wanted to savor this. Each button he slipped open was a deliberate act, exposing me inch by inch until the cool air hit my heated skin. His hands were big-rough, like he'd worked or fought, not pampered like the pretty alphas in suits at my office. They slid under the lace of my bra, callused thumbs brushing over sensitive skin. I arched into him involuntarily, breath catching, and he responded with a low, satisfied sound. "You've been driving me insane," he said, pressing kisses down my neck. "Walking around in those skirts, all business, pretending you don't notice how I look at you." "I didn't," I gasped, but the words broke with a whimper as his mouth found the peak of my breast through the lace. "Not… 1/3 much." He chuckled against my skin. "Liar." He lifted me again, one arm under my thighs as the other swept everything off the nearby kitchen island with a crash that should've startled me, but all I could think about was the way his chest felt pressed to mine, hard and hot and bare. He laid me down on the counter like I was something precious and untouchable-then touched me everywhere. My skirt bunched around my waist, his fingers trailing along the edge of my thighs, teasing, circling closer and closer until I whimpered, legs tightening around his hips. He was taking his time, and it was driving me mad. "Please," I breathed, hating how desperate I sounded but too far gone to care. His lips curved against my skin. "Please what?" "Ian-"I tried to glare at him, but my voice cracked when his fingers dipped just slightly beneath my panties. The friction made me cry out softly. "I like it when you say my name like that." His voice was low, hungry. His fingers stroked slowly, just enough to make me tremble, never enough to satisfy. I was already half gone, mindless and needy, when he finally slipped them aside and touched me properly. My hips jerked, mouth falling open in a soundless moan. I could feel every slow, circling stroke, every slick glide of his fingers, and it was too much. Not enough. I reached for his pants, fumbling, desperate to feel all of him, but he caught my wrist and brought my hand to his mouth. He kissed my palm softly, too softly for what he was doing to the rest of me. "Not yet," he said, voice fraying. "I want to watch you fall apart first. Let me serve you well, my lady." He curled his fingers just right, and I grabbed the edge of the counter so hard that my knuckles turned white. I wanted to comment on how he had used my name and wanted to ask him to say that again, but I was too breathless all of a sudden. He wasted no time and kept pumping in and out of me, slow rhythmic strokes as if he had done this a thousand times already. As if he knew which parts of me could elicit a response and leave me begging for more. He was my boy toy, but my mind wondered who else had he pleasured like this, which female had the pleasure of getting her fantasies fulfilled by this handsome man. "Almost there," I whispered, and he nodded, increasing the strokes as I threw my head back and a ripple of pleasure traveled up from down there to every nerve of my body. He plucked me off the counter and away from the main kitchen island, and then placed me on the one opposite to it. The one where I could serve the dishes. But tonight, he was serving me. How ironic! I spasmed and gasped, taking in huge breaths as he held me straight, supporting me with his tall frame while I rode his hand hard. 2/3 I had never known what it was to be utterly wrecked by someone yet feel blissful. All these years, I had focussed solely on my career and climbing the corporate ladder. It was a shame how fast my body came undone by him. My back arched off the counter as my climax hit, sharp and blinding. I gasped his name again and again, gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing tethering me to the world. I was still shaking when he leaned in and kissed me, slow and possessive, as if he was claiming me with every press of his mouth. I forgot the number of times I took his name or moaned, but I recalled how he looked me in the eye and asked me to relax through his eyes. "It would be a shame to not taste, my lady, so pardon me if I don't seek your permission for this" He said, and I felt utterly embarrassed when he held his fingers in front of me and then put them one by one in his mouth. I couldn't even look away as he sucked them one by one, making me stare at him unabashedly.