My breathing comes in ragged, audible pants now. I want him. Even if I’ve never had a man like this within my grasp, something inside of medemandsI let him in.
He sees the naked want in my eyes. He wraps a fist around himself, his grip tight, and a low growl rumbles in his chest.
“Keep watching, sweetheart,” he commands, his voice gravelly. He begins to stroke, a slow, punishing rhythm. His bicep flexes with the movement, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re making me suffer for it. Tell me, are you getting wetter? Watching me jack off like some fucking teenager?”
Iam. A fresh, hot rush of dampness betrays me, and a flush of shameful heat creeps up my chest and neck. Even if I press my thighs together, he’ll still know.
He pumps his fist, once, twice, a dozen times. The room is filled with the soft, slick sound of his hand, the ragged symphony of our breathing. His jaw is clenched, his forehead beaded with sweat. He is a study in controlled, agonizing release.
I lose count. I can only watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the tension in his body snaps. With a guttural groan, he stills, and hot streaks of release land against my inner thighs and the rumpled hem of my shirt. The sensation is shocking, burning each inch he’s marked.
He works himself through his release, squeezing out every last drop, his moan soft and surrendering.
For a long moment, he just stands there, catching his breath, his gaze heavy-lidded and intense on mine. The scent of sex and him is everywhere, marking the room, marking me.
He tucks himself away back behind his boxers, thankfully. His bodyiskind of distracting. Shoving his fingers through his hair, his eyes pinch closed.
“That,” he starts, “was a moment of weakness.”
I nod, silently agreeing with him.
Hopefully, we don’t cave to these kinds of moments over and over again.
He searches around for something, leaving me lying there, covered in the evidence of his claim, my body humming and my heart with want.
Biting the inside of my cheek, the pain helps ground me as he finds a towel. Returning, he doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he wipes my thighs, going as far as grazing my sensitive sex, too.
We both stare at my shirt, the forming stain staring back.
“I liked this shirt.” Cheeks hot, I can only imagine trying to get the stain out.
“Guess you’ll have to wear one of mine.” He’s so casual about it, giving me his back where I can see he’s got more scars. Some look less deadly than the front ones.
Once again, I’m reminded what kind of man Ripper is.
“Do you let every woman you mess around with wear your clothes?” The question leaves me before I can stop it, and I hate how the jealousy sounds intertwining my words.
Ripper’s not mine, and he’s right. This was a moment of weakness.
“No—” His voice cuts through my thoughts. “—I don’t.”
He sounds angry too, but I can’t see his face, not when he’s busy digging around his duffel bag.
My body jerks when he tosses me something. A simple white tee.
“Put this on for now. We’ll clean up in the morning.” Giving me his back, he shoves his jeans off to change. “I won’t look. Just hurry up. I need sleep.”
Hearing the exhaustion behind his words, I take advantage. Not wanting to risk him seeing me where I’m the ugliest, I pull off my shirt and hesitate to take off my bra. Will it make a difference?
“Done yet?” He shifts, his head bowing instead of sneaking a glance like I half-expect him to.
“Almost.” Giving up on my bra, I drop both on the edge of his bed. “My underwear is gone.”
He makes this groaning sound in the back of his throat. “Will the shirt be long enough?”
He wants me to sleep without any? My skin burns at the very thought. “I mean…”
Throwing his shirt on, it feels nice against my skin. He’s bulkier than I am, but it’s well-fitting.
