But my voice comes out breathless because his fingers are working my jeans open, and then he’s tugging them down—wet denim fighting him, both of us struggling with the graceless reality of it—until they’re off, and I’m in nothing but cotton underwear that is definitely not sexy.
He doesn’t seem to care. He’s looking at me like I’m wearing silk and lace. Like I’m something precious.
No one’s ever looked at me like that. No one’s ever seen me this exposed.
“These too?” His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties.
“Yes.”
He pulls them down. Slow. Deliberate. And then I’m bare in front of him, completely exposed. I should feel vulnerable—I do—but I also feel powerful. Wanted.
Chosen.
Don’t get used to this,the survival voice whispers.Don’t let yourself need him.
Too late.
“I need to taste you.” His voice has dropped, rough and dark. “I’ve thought about it. Every night since I first saw you. What sounds you’d make. How you’d move.” His hands spread my thighs wider. “Tell me yes.”
“Yes.” It comes out strangled. “God, yes.”
He leans in and puts his mouth on me.
I cry out—can’t help it. His tongue slides through my folds, finds my clit, and pleasure jolts through me like electricity. My hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, and he groans against me like my desperation is exactly what he wanted.
“That’s it.” His breath is hot against my skin. “Let me hear you.”
He works me with his tongue—slow circles, then fast, then agonizingly slow again—and I’m shaking, trembling, making sounds I’ve never made. This isn’t like anything I’ve experienced.
This is someone paying attention. Learning me. Taking his time like I’m worth savoring.
“You taste incredible.” He slides a finger inside me, and I arch off the cot. “Could do this for hours.”
“I can’t—” I’m climbing too fast, tension coiling tight. “Daniel, I’m going to?—”
“Good.” He crooks his finger, finds a spot that makes me see stars. “Come for me, Laney. I want to feel it.”
I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me, wave after wave, and I cry out his name as my whole body convulses. He works me through it, relentless, drawing out every last pulse until I’m gasping and boneless.
He presses a kiss to my inner thigh. Looks up at me with wet lips and dark eyes.
“That,” he says, “was worth waiting for.”
I laugh weakly. “Give me a minute. I think you broke something.”
“Take your time.”
But I don’t want time. I want him.
I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrist.
“You don’t have to?—”
“Stop.” I meet his eyes. “Stop telling me what I don’t have to do.”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Then something shifts in his expression—surrender, maybe—and he lets go of my wrist.
