"Are you okay?"
He's quiet for a beat, and I can feel the tension radiating from him, the way his body is coiled tight like a spring about to release. "I don't know."
I shift onto my side, facing him even though I can barely see him in the dim light. The outline of his face is barely visible, all hard lines and shadows, but I can feel the intensity of his gaze on me.
He turns his head, and I can just make out the shape of his face, the shadow of his beard, the glint of his eyes catching what little light there is from the dying embers. They're darker than usual, almost black in the dim glow, and there's something raw in them.
His breathing is uneven now.
I move closer, closing the space between us until I can feel his warm breath on my face, until our bodies are almost touching under the blankets.
"Please," I whisper. "Let me in."
For one terrible second, I think he's going to pull away again.
But then he kisses me.
It's like something inside him breaks, and suddenly his mouth is on mine, hot and hungry. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and he kisses me like he's been starving for this, like he's been holding back for too long and can't do it anymore.
I kiss him back just as fiercely, my hands finding his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt, the rapid thud of his heartbeat under my palm.
He tastes like want and restraint finally giving way, a hint of mint from toothpaste and something darker, more primal. His tongue slides against mine, claiming, exploring, and I open for him completely.
Our bodies press together, and I feel the heat of him through the layers of clothing still between us. His hand slides down my back, pulling me closer, and I shift my leg over his hip, wanting to feel more of him, needing the contact like air.
The friction of our bodies moving together sends sparks of heat through me, settling low in my belly and spreading outward.
"Demi," he breathes against my mouth, pulling back just enough to speak, and it sounds like a prayer and a warning all at once.
"Don't stop," I whisper back, my lips brushing his with every word. "Please don't stop."
He groans a low, guttural sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine, and then his hands are moving, sliding under my shirt, finding bare skin.
His palms are rough and warm, calloused in all the right places, and when they settle on my waist, I arch into his touch, wanting more. His thumbs brush against the soft skin of my stomach, and I feel goosebumps rise in their wake.
I'm bolder now, driven by the need to show him what I want. My hand moves down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, feeling each muscle tense under my touch, and lower, until I'm cupping him through his boxers.
He's hard, straining against the fabric, thick and hot even through the thin material, and when I squeeze gently, he makes a sound that's half moan, half growl.
"Jesus, Demi—"
I don't let him finish. I slip my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping my fingers around him, and the feel of him pulsing in my hand makes my mouth water.
He's so hard it's almost intimidating, the skin silky-smooth over rigid heat, and I can feel him throb against my palm with every beat of his heart.
He curses under his breath, his hips jerking slightly into my touch, and I start to stroke him slowly, exploring the length of him, the weight of him in my palm, the way he responds to every movement.
His breathing turns ragged, and he buries his face in my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, sending shivers racing down my spine.
"You're going to kill me," he mutters, his voice rough and strained, his breath hot against my throat.
"Good," I whisper back, and I feel him smile against my skin, the curve of his lips warm and slightly damp.
Then his hand is moving, sliding down my stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of my leggings and panties. His fingers find me, and I gasp at the contact, at the way he touches me like he's learning me, like he's memorizing every response.
He traces my folds slowly, teasingly, and I'm already so wet that his fingers glide easily.
He starts slow, tracing, teasing, his fingers circling but never quite giving me what I need, until I'm squirming against him, desperate for more. My hips rock against his hand, seeking friction, seeking relief, and I hear him chuckle darkly against my neck.
