My hand drifts higher, grazing the soft skin of her stomach. She shivers beneath me, goosebumps rising in the wake of my touch.
“Lift your arms,” I whisper against her mouth.
She hesitates just a moment, then lifts them above her head in a gesture of surrender that makes my heart stutter. I pull the shirt up slowly, revealing her body inch by precious inch, the gentle swell of her ribs, the delicate curve of her breasts, the constellation of freckles across her sternum I never knew existed.
When the shirt finally clears her head, her hair tumbles back across the pillow. I toss the fabric aside, too entranced to care where it lands.
“God,” I breathe, taking in the sight of her nearly naked beneath me. “Look at you.”
Her cheeks flush deeper, but she doesn’t cover herself. Her breasts rise and fall with each quick breath, nipples pebbling in the cool morning air. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times, but nothing — nothing — prepared me for the reality of Meredith, bare and wanting, in my bed.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, vulnerability in her voice.
“I’m worshipping,” I correct softly, trailing my fingers along her collarbone.
I lower my mouth to her throat, kissing the hollow beneath her ear. Her pulse is fluttering against my lips. I press open-mouthed kisses between her breasts, lingering at the curve of each. Her fingers thread through my hair, tentative at first, then tightening when my mouth closes around one pink nipple. A soft gasp escapes her and heat rushes straight to my groin.
“Nick,” she breathes, arching slightly.
I give her nipple the attention it craves, sucking gently, then with more pressure as her fingers twist in my hair. My other hand cups her other breast, thumb circling her nipple until she squirms under me.
“So responsive,” I murmur, switching to the other side. “Always so perfect.”
Her legs shift restlessly under the blanket, thighs pressing together as if seeking friction from the ache building between them. I smile against her skin.
“Patience,” I whisper, nipping lightly at the underside of her breast. “I’ve waited ten years for this. I’m not rushing.”
She makes a frustrated sound that’s half laugh, half whimper. “That’s not fair.”
“Nothing about wanting you has ever been fair,” I reply, trailing kisses along her ribs and stomach, dipping my tongue into her navel. Her muscles jump beneath my mouth. “Lift your hips for me, Sugarplum.”
The nickname slips out before I can stop it. I tense, waiting for her to flinch, to remember where we are and what I’ve done. Instead, her eyes just go darker, heat flooding her gaze as she complies, lifting her hips off the mattress and offering herself up like she doesn’t realize she’s playing with a live wire.
For a second, a voice in the back of my skull hisses that I don’t get this. Not after taking her. Not after dragging her here and locking the door.You don’t get to have her like this, soft and willing and looking at you like you’re anything but the problem.
I shove it down. If I start listening to it, I’ll put her wrists back in zip ties just to prove myself right.
My hands slide beneath her, cupping her ass, thumbs brushing the edge of her panties. I feel the curve of her, the tension in her muscles, the tremor beneath her skin. She’s scared. She should be. But she’s still here. Still choosing this. Still choosing me, at least right now.
“You’re overdressed,” she points out, voice a little breathless.
“This isn’t about me,” I say, but my hands are already at the hem of my shirt. I strip it off in one quick move, tossing it aside.
Her gaze drags over my chest, taking in the muscle, the scars. Her fingers reach for the one that curves along my ribs—a pale,raised line from a different night I decided I was done being a victim.
“What happened?” she asks quietly, tracing it with the tip of her finger.
I catch her hand and press a kiss to her palm. “Later,” I promise. “Right now, all I want is to make you feel good.”
She lets out a soft, shaky laugh and shivers as my mouth finds hers again. My bare chest presses against hers, skin to skin, and the heat that slams through me is almost painful. The twisted part of me that knows I don’t deserve this, but I take it anyway, greedy and starving.
I trail kisses down her throat, between her breasts, across her stomach, until I’m settled between her thighs. My hands slide under her again, palms full of her ass, imagining the red prints my hand left there last night and fighting the urge to leave new ones.
“I want to taste you,” I murmur against her hip bone, looking up at her from between her legs. “I need to know how you taste on my tongue.”
Her breath catches. “Nick—”
I press my mouth against the thin cotton of her panties, feeling the heat and dampness beneath. “Say yes,” I whisper into the fabric. “Let me worship you properly.”
