Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

Her bedroom was dimmer than the living room, lit only by the small lamp on her nightstand that cast everything in amber and shadow. The bed was made, the sheets pale and smooth, and the air carried her scent—something warm and faintly floral, the kind that lingered on pillows.

Makima stopped at the foot of the bed and turned to face him. Her hand was still wrapped around his, her palm warm and slightly damp. She looked up at him with those deep blue eyes, and for the first time since he’d known her, there was no weight behind them. No calculation. No waiting. Just want.

”I meant what I said,” she murmured. ”About not knowing what to do with feeling this light.”

”Then let me show you.”

She exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh, and reached for the hem of her dress. She pulled it over her head in one clean motion, dropping it to the floor, and then her hands were on him again, undoing the buttons of his shirt with a patience that bordered on torment.

”You’re wearing too much,” she said.

”So are you.”

She smiled—that same unguarded smile—and reached behind her back to unclasp her bra. The straps slid from her shoulders. The fabric fell away. Her breasts were full and high, the way he remembered from their first night together, but somehow more present now, more real in the warm lamplight than they’d been in the dark of her office. Her nipples were already peaked, the deep brown of them stark against the lighter brown of her skin.

Sean’s breath caught in his throat. He reached out without thinking, his palm settling against her waist, his thumb tracing the curve of her ribcage. Her skin was impossibly soft.

”You’re staring,” she said quietly.

”Yeah.”

His other hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple in a slow circle, and Makima’s eyes fluttered shut. Her lips parted. A small sound escaped her—barely a sigh, barely a moan, something caught between the two.

”Sean.”

He guided her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat, then lay back, her dark hair fanning across the pale sheets, and he followed her down, his mouth finding the hollow of her throat, the ridge of her collarbone, the swell of her breast. His lips closed around her nipple and she arched into him with a gasp, her fingers threading through his hair.

”God,” she breathed. ”I’ve been thinking about this.”

”Tell me.”

”Your mouth. Your hands. The way you—” Her words dissolved into a moan as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak, gentle and deliberate. ”The way you take your time.”

He switched to her other breast, his hand still working the one he’d left wet, and Makima’s hips rolled beneath him, a helpless, involuntary movement that pressed the heat of her against his thigh. She was still wearing her trousers. He could feel the dampness through the fabric.

But then her hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back gently.

”My turn,” she said, her voice husky and commanding in a way that went straight through him.

She rose from the bed and knelt on the floor in front of him, her movements deliberate, her blue eyes fixed on his. Her fingers found his belt buckle, working it open with practiced ease, and then his trousers and boxers were sliding down his thighs, and his cock sprang free—thick, already hard, the head flushed a shade darker than the rest of him.

Makima’s breath caught audibly. She wrapped her hand around the base of him, her fingers not quite meeting, and gave a slow, firm squeeze that made his stomach tighten.

”You have no idea what you do to me,” she murmured.

”Show me.”

She did.

Her tongue touched the tip first, light and teasing, tracing the ridge of the head with a slowness that bordered on cruelty. Sean’s hand found the back of her head, not pushing, just resting there, and she hummed in approval. Then her lips parted and she took him into her mouth.

The heat of her was staggering. She worked him slowly at first, her tongue pressing flat against the underside of his shaft, her cheek hollowing with each pull. Then she took him deeper, and deeper still, until her nose was nearly pressed against his abdomen and her throat was working around him in a way that made Sean’s vision tunnel.

”Fuck, Makima.”

She pulled back, her lips glistening, a strand of saliva connecting her to the tip of him. ”Good?”

”You know it’s good.”

She smiled, that warm, wicked smile, and took him into her mouth again, faster this time, her hand working the base in tandem with her lips, her other hand cupping his balls with a gentle, rolling pressure that made his thighs tremble. The wet sounds of her mouth filled the quiet room, obscenely loud in the silence.

He let her work for another minute, two, the pleasure building low and heavy at the base of his spine, before he gently pulled her back.

”My turn,” he said.

She rose on slightly unsteady legs, and he guided her onto the bed, laying her back against the sheets. Her trousers came off next, then her panties—black, simple, already soaked through—and then she was bare before him, all curves and warm brown skin and the dark triangle of hair between her thighs, glistening with the evidence of her arousal.

Sean knelt between her legs and took a moment just to look at her. Her pussy was beautiful—the outer lips full and dark, the inner lips just visible, peeking out swollen and pink and slick. Her clit was a small pearl nestled at the apex, throbbing visibly under his gaze.

”You’re killing me,” Makima said, her voice strained.

He lowered his mouth to her and she stopped talking.

His tongue traced the seam of her first, slow and flat, parting her folds and tasting her.