“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
My hand slides behind her back, unhooking her bra easily. She freezes, not in fear, but in anticipation.
The bra falls away.
And she is… stunning.
I lower my mouth to her chest, kissing first, then tracing her nipple with my tongue, slow and controlled until her head falls back and she lets out a noise that’s not polite or composed, it’s raw.
Her hands are on my head, holding me there, and I let her have that for a moment before I pull back just enough to speak.
“You’re already falling apart.”
Her glare weakens from heat.
“Shut up and touch me.”
I laugh once, low and rough.
Then I give her exactly what she asked for.
My hand slides down between her thighs and the second my fingers slip beneath the lace, my restraint fractures.
She’s warm.
Wet.
Waiting.
She gasps when I drag two fingers along her slowly, mapping every reaction, every tremor, learning her like she’s a language.
“Bryce,” she whispers.
“I’m right here.”
I kiss her again, deeper this time, while my fingers move with purpose, slowly at first, then faster when her hips grind against my hand like she’s chasing the feeling.
Her moan breaks against my mouth and I swallow it greedily.
“You’re perfect like this,” I tell her. “Open. Needy. Not pretending you don’t want me.”
She pants, “I didn’t—”
“You tried,” I say, sliding my thumb exactly where she needs it.
Her body jolts.
And I know she’s close.
“Come for me,” I murmur against her lips.
She shakes her head, breathless. “Not yet.”
“Oh,” I say softly, “you’re dangerous.”
Her laugh turns into another gasp and she grabs my wrist, not to stop me, but to feel it.
