Except this doesn’t feel like teenagers fumbling around. This feels deliberate.
Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and wants to watch me fall apart.
His hand fists in my hair, not pulling, just holding. “That’s it. Just like that.”
I’m moving now without his guidance, chasing the pressure, and I can feel him tense beneath me. Can hear his breathing change.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs against my ear. “Do you know that?”
I don’t feel beautiful. I feel messy and desperate and way too exposed even though I’m still dressed.
But his hands are reverent as they slide up my sides.
His mouth finds the pulse point in my neck. And when I whimper because the angle is perfect and I’m so close already, he makes this rough sound that goes straight through me.
“Good girl,” he says. “Take what you need.”
The praise sends heat flooding through my system. My cheeks are burning.
You’re blushing during foreplay.
Very sexy.
But I can’t stop moving. Can’t stop chasing the building pressure. And when his other hand slides under my dress to palm my breast through my bra, I come apart with his name on my lips.
“Corin!”
For a moment I just stay there, forehead pressed against his shoulder, trying to remember how breathing works.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“We will, eventually,” he replies, and there’s amusement in his voice.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing. Which I definitely don’t. I’m curvy and soft in all the places society says I shouldn’t be, and normally that makes me self-conscious, but something about the way he’s handling me makes all self-consciousness go away.
God my panties are soaking.
He sets me on the bed and I watch as he pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
And holy hell.
I forgot how good he looks. Lean muscle and olive skin and that trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband. Thoseobliques, those sculpted abs, those pectoral muscles ridged like plates on a barbell. And while mostly he’s the same, he’s also... more somehow. Like someone turned up the contrast. Like he’s gotten really really cut lately.
Amara.
You are officially objectifying this man.
Good.
He notices me staring and cocks an eyebrow. “See something you like?”
“Maybe,” I mutter, which is the understatement of the year. Speaking of eyebrow cocking, my gaze momentarily drops to the bulge in his pants before jumping back to his face.
His mouth quirks. Then he’s reaching for the hem of my dress. “Can I?”
I nod and lift my arms so he can pull it over my head.
The cotton whispers against my skin as it comes off. Then I’m sitting there in my plain black bra and underwear, feeling suddenly very aware of every soft curve and imperfection.
