When the bra falls away, he goes completely still. Just staring at me, his eyes dark and hungry.
"Give me a second." His voice is rough, almost pained. "I need a second to... to remember I'm supposed to be gentle."
"What if I don't want gentle?"
His eyes snap to mine, something fierce and primal flashing there. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm barely holding on as it is." His hands are shaking where they hover near my skin. "Because I want to touch you everywhere. Taste you everywhere. Make you scream my name. And I don't know if that's normal or if it's something darker. Something violent."
"There's nothing violent about wanting me." I take his hands and place them on my breasts, holding them there. "This is desire. This is need. This is normal."
He groans and his control finally slips. His hands tighten on me, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that's no longer careful. It's hungry. Demanding. His tongue slides against mine and I moan into his mouth, pressing closer.
"Bed," I gasp against his lips. "Now."
He lifts me, easily, like I weigh nothing, and carries me to the bed. Lays me down carefully despite the urgency in his movements. Then he's on top of me, his weight perfect, his mouth on my neck again.
"Tell me if I do something wrong," he says between kisses. "If I go too far."
"You won't."
But I can feel it in him. The tight restraint. The way he's holding himself back even as his hands slide down my body, even as his mouth trails lower, kissing down my collarbone, between my breasts, down my stomach.
His fingers find the button of my jeans and he pauses, looking up at me for permission.
"Yes," I breathe.
His fingers work at the button of my jeans, each brush of his knuckles against my stomach sending a jolt of heat straight between my thighs. The rasp of the zipper is loud in the quiet room. Then his hands are hooking into the waistband, dragging both my jeans and underwear down in one rough tug. Cool air hits my bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire in his eyes as he looks at me.
I’m completely exposed now, naked and trembling under his gaze. He sits back, his dark eyes tracing every inch of me—my breasts, the curve of my waist, the dampness already glistening between my thighs.
“You’re staring,” I whisper, my voice barely more than a breath.
“I can’t look away,” he admits, his voice rough. “You’re perfect. Every fucking part of you.”
Then his hands are on my thighs, sliding up slowly, and I shiver. His touch is firm now, no longer tentative, but still so careful. Like I'm something precious.
His calloused fingers slowly spread me open. I gasp as the air hits my swollen, aching pussy, already wet and throbbing for him. His thumb brushes lightly over me, spreading my slickness, and I whimper at the contact.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “So fucking wet for me.”
I arch into his touch, my hips jerking as he circles my clit, slow and deliberate, learning exactly what makes me gasp, what makes my breath catch.
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, his fingers teasing my entrance.
“More,” I beg, my fingers tangling in the sheets. “Please, I need more.”
His fingers slide inside me without warning, two thick digits stretching me, filling me. I cry out, my back arching off the bed as he curls his fingers, pressing against that spot inside me.
His thumb finds my clit again, rubbing in tight, relentless circles as he fingers me, his rhythm unyielding. The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"God, Isabella." His voice is wrecked. "You feel..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. Just works his fingers slowly, carefully, watching my reactions. When he finds a spot that makes me gasp, he focuses there, building the pressure until I'm trembling.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dark and encouraging. “Let me hear you. Let me feel you come on my fingers.”
