“This. Make you…do things with me.” He started to pull away, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“You’re not making me do anything.” She moved her hand to his side, a place she knew was safe to touch without hurting him. “I…I just needed a second. I haven’t felt this much…” No, no, don’t talk about feelings. “I haven’t done this in forever.”
“No?” He sat back a bit on his haunches, looking down at her, at the way she writhed on the sofa beneath him, her treacherous skin nothing but a network of nerve endings, begging to be tweaked. “I don’t get that. You’re so…beautiful.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He lifted a hand to her jaw, not quite grazing her skin. Even that almost-touch seemed proprietary, and suddenly, George wanted him to do it for real.
“Touch me there,” she whispered.
After only the briefest of hesitations, he did it, although not rough and bossy as she’d imagined, but gently—as if he were in awe—and that careful caress almost broke her.
“Do it harder,” she ordered, an edge to her voice.
His eyes met hers. “Thought you wanted to stop.”
“I should, but I don’t.”
He nodded, easily accepting her change of heart, before moving that big hand over her shoulder, to her chest. George’s body liked that. It gave its undeniable response.
“God, look at you, George. Look at this.” He reached a finger to nudge one painfully hard nipple and slipped his hand down between them, to where her flimsy skirt had flipped back, leaving her exposed, open, and wanting.
She made a noise deep in her throat.
“And what about this, George?” He pulled her soaked underwear aside and ran one finger along her. “How the hell can I stay away when you’re like this for me, huh?” he asked, and she truly, truly didn’t know. She felt the same, after all. She wasn’t just attracted to the man; she was drawn to him, inevitably, magnetized by his presence.
And he knew how turned-on she was. He had to, with her…arousal all over his hand. His fingers, for goodness sake, couldn’t even find purchase. They just slid and slid until, somehow, finally, one of them worked its way slowly inside her, and George’s throat let out a noise—an unsexy grunt that proved just how long it’d been since anything that exciting had breached her body.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because it was true. She shouldn’t be doing this with a patient, a man too messed up to know better. She should be the one to know better. “I’m not… I don’t know what to do. I want to see you too, but I can’t even—”
“Yeah?” At her nod, he leaned back again, removed his hand, leaving her cold, undid his belt, yanked down his zipper, and with a quick glance at her face, reached inside his underwear to pull himself out.
No ink, she thought with relief. He was big. Thick, veined, and somehow glorious—not a word she’d ever used before for a penis. Penises had always seemed like such utilitarian features. But this one… Too big, thought George, who’d used nothing but a crappy little AA-fueled bullet vibrator for the last decade. She wanted to touch it, feel how unyielding and stiff it was, how soft his skin, measure its weight in her palm.
Her eyes returned to his face, where the dark imprint on his lids gave him such a look of violence that she shivered, utterly certain that this was the worst mistake she’d ever make. And yet, everything in her pushed her toward this man. Everything made her yearn for this, to be with him, to taste him and touch him and remember what it felt like to be alive.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he whispered, no doubt mistaking her trembling for fear. But it wasn’t. It was something else—excitement, perhaps? Titillation? She didn’t know. How could she know?
“Oh God. I want to.” Another glance showed that body she couldn’t stop thinking of. She’d die if they didn’t do this soon. She’d burst into flames, her skin was so scorching hot.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Yes, I want to.” She writhed against him, asking him to touch her again without words. “Do it. Make me…make me feel…” Good Lord, what was it she was going to say? Make me feel whole again? Those weren’t the right words, she knew. But she couldn’t, for the life of her, make the words come out.
Instead of talking, she let go of her doubts, sucked in a big, shaky breath, and made a decision. This was it—a letting go she hadn’t realized she was capable of. She threw worry and shame and responsibility to the wind as she reached down and grasped the hot, hard sex of this man who’d taken her life and torn it into a million beautiful, little pieces.
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13
Clay had stopped hurting the minute he’d touched her. It’s psychosomatic, he understood in the only sane part of his brain—a thought he quickly tamped down. Because, whatever the reasons for the reprieve, he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Besides, right now, with her cool, prim, white hand on his dick, there wasn’t much point trying to sort out what was right or wrong, good or bad, or any of that other shit. No point at all, because he hadn’t felt this good in months. Months? Fuck no, years. It had been years since Clay Navarro had felt anything so right.
“Tighter,” he said, because she was teasing, and he wanted real.
She tightened her fingers, reminding him of how efficient she could be with those strong hands. Down his cock, then back up, without really hitting the head—still with the teasing—until he glanced up at her face and understood this wasn’t about that at all. She looked fascinated, curious, and completely taken in. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You can’t hurt me.”
