His mouth drifted from mine, skimming along my cheek, down to the hinge of my jaw, where he breathed me in like I was something to memorize.
“Juniper,” he murmured against my skin, voice low, almost pained.
“Yeah?” My voice was wrecked, breathless.
“I’ve been trying to be good.” His lips brushed my ear, soft as a secret. “Really trying.”
I shivered, my hands fisting in the back of his shirt. “Don’t be good.” That earned me a quiet, broken sound from him, hisforehead pressing to my temple. He stayed there for a beat, like he needed to collect himself, before his hand on my thigh slid higher — still slow, still gentle, but undeniablymore.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and leaned us both further back until I felt the plush comforter against my shoulder blades and his weight warm over me. Not pinning. Not trapping. Just surrounding.
The bed creaked softly beneath us, a reminder of where we were. Of how thin the walls were. Even so, his fingers splayed over my hip, tracing the line between pajamas and skin like it was holy.
His palm skimmed under the hem of my shirt, slow enough to make me gasp. He paused there, fingertips just resting against the warm skin at my waist like he was giving me every chance to stop him. When I didn’t — when I tipped my chin up in silent permission — he let his hand roam higher.
Nothing about his touch was rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It wasworship. Like he wanted to map every inch of me, not for conquest, but for memory.
His thumb swept over the curve of my ribcage, then the hollow just under my breast, and my breath caught. He noticed — of course he noticed — and he stayed there, tracing gentle curve with the side of his thumb, watching my face like that was his favorite part.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
“You’re not helping,” I whispered back, but it came out like a laugh and a plea all at once.
His mouth curved against my jaw. “Good.”
The word thrummed through me.
His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the lace of my bra. Just a touch, nothing more, and yet it felt devastating. He didn’t push, didn’t cup, just let his fingertips trace the delicate edge like he was learning the shape of me through memory and touch combined.
Every pass was slow, deliberate, almost maddening. The bedcreaked when I shifted toward him, needing more contact, and his other hand came to rest at the small of my back, pulling me closer until our knees tangled and I could feel the solid heat of his erection even through our clothes.
“Ansel…” My voice was thin, like the sound could barely make it past the knot in my throat.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his breath warm over my ear. “Just… let me have you slow. Let mesavorevery minute of this, baby.”
His hand finally slipped over the lace, cupping me through it — not rough, but not delicate either. Like he’d been dying to feel the weight of me in his palm.
A low sound rumbled in his chest, almost like he didn’t mean for it to escape, and my stomach clenched. “God, June…” He said it like a prayer, his thumb brushing over my hardened nipple through the thin fabric, just once, as though he wasn’t sure if he could survive a second time.
I arched toward him before I could think, and that was all it took. His mouth was on my neck, warm and searching, while his fingers traced lazy circles over me, kneading gently before his touch turned more deliberate.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathed against my skin. My hands were in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The sound went straight through me, and then he was lowering his head, kissing along my collarbone before dragging the neckline of my shirt down, exposing the lace and skin he’d been teasing.
The look in his eyes when he pulled back made my breath catch — like he’d been starving and I was finally in front of him.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. His thumb traced the swell of my breast, and then he dipped his head to press his mouth over the lace, warm breath seeping through as he kissed me there.
The smallest flick of his tongue against the thin barrier made my whole body jolt.
He smiled against me — the bastard — and did it again, slower.
He hooked a finger under the lace, and for a second I thought he’d just tease me again — but then he pushed it aside. The cool air hit first, then the heat of his palm, skin to skin.
I gasped before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked up, sharp and dark and so damn smug. “Shhh,” he whispered, but his thumb brushed over my nipple in a way that was anything but calming.
“Ansel—”
