Right now, words don’t matter. Right now, I just haveher.
I lift her onto the workbench without really meaning to—I just need her closer, need to feel more of her, and the height difference is making my neck ache. She gasps at the sudden movement, then wraps her legs around my hips and pulls me in tight.
“Oh,” she breathes. “That’s—okay, that’s better.”
Better isn’t the word I’d use. Better implies this is just good. This is—this is her thighs bracketing my hips, her center pressed against me through too many layers of clothes, her scent spiking so sweet I’m dizzy with it.
I kiss her jaw. Her throat. That spot just below her ear that makes her shiver and tip her head back to give me better access. Her pulse is racing under my lips, and I want to bite down. Want to sink my teeth in and mark her so everyone knows she’s mine.
Not yet. Not tonight.
Butsoon.
“Elijah.” My name comes out breathy, almost a moan. “I want?—”
“Tell me.” I scrape my teeth along her collarbone, light enough to tease. “Whatever you want. Tell me.”
“I don’t—” She breaks off, gasping, when I find a sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. “I don’t know. Just more. More of you.”
I pull back to look at her. Her lips are swollen from kissing, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and wanting. Her sweater has ridden up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her hip.
I’ve catalogued every detail of her since the day we met. The way she holds her pen. The way she tips her head when she’s thinking. The coffee cup she always uses—the blue one with the chip in the handle that she refuses to replace because she likes how it fits in her hand.
But this is new. Tessa, unguarded. Wanting. Looking at me like I’m something precious.
“Can I touch you?” I ask. My hands are already on her waist, but I need her to say it. Need to be sure. “Under your sweater?”
She nods frantically. “Please. Yes.”
I slide my hands up under the soft cream fabric.
Her skin is impossibly soft. Warm and smooth under my palms as I trace up her sides, over her ribs. I feel her breath catch when my thumbs brush the underside of her breasts, feel the way her whole body arches toward me.
“Elijah.” My name is a plea.
“I’ve got you.” I kiss her again, softer this time. “I’ve got you. Just tell me if you want me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare.”
I find the edge of her bra—lace, thin lace that I can feel the heat of her through—and trace along it with my fingertips. She’s trembling. Not from cold. The workshop is warm, the candles still burning, and her scent is giving off so much heat I’m surprised we haven’t set something on fire. Underneath the lavender, I catch the unmistakable sweetness of slick—her body responding to mine, wanting more than we’re going to give it tonight.
When I finally cup her breasts, she moans.
It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. Better than the satisfied creak of a joint fitting perfectly together. Better than the clean shhhh of a plane taking off a perfect curl of wood. Tessa Lang, moaning my name while I touch her.
I could live in this moment forever.
“God.” She’s panting now, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “That’s—more, please?—”
I brush my thumbs over her nipples through the lace, and she makes a sound that’s almost a sob. Her hips rock against me, seeking friction, and it takes every ounce of control I have not to grind back.
Not tonight. We’re taking this slow. We have time.
But god, she’s making it difficult.
“Elijah.” She pulls back just enough to look at me, and her eyes are dazed, pupils blown wide. “I want—I want more, but I don’t want to rush this. Is that—does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.” I force myself to still my hands, just holding her. Grounding both of us. “We don’t have to rush anything.”
