“Yes,” I breathe, and it sounds more desperate than I intend. “I’ll let you.”
His lips crush mine in response, a kiss that steals every ounce of hesitation I had left. He guides me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bench beneath the windows, and he eases me down, standing over me like I belong exactly where he’s put me.
The brushstrokes of blue across my skin have mostly dried, but his fingers smear them anyway as he drags them along my shoulder, my collarbone, the swell just above my sports bra. I shiver under every touch, every mark he makes, the flakes falling away from me fluttering between us.
My body instinctively wants to writhe and search for something that’ll satisfy this ache he’s awakened in me.
“Don’t move,” he says darkly, his light-blue eyes fixed on mine like I’m his masterpiece.
My body still screams for friction, but I do as he says, staying perfectly still while his thumb tugs the strap of my bra down my shoulder. His lips follow, hot against the skin around the paint, and the contrast makes me gasp and moan.
His mouth presses firmer, his teeth grazing my collarbone just enough to make me twitch.
His hands and mouth are everywhere I want them, but nowhere I need them desperately. Pinning me, guiding me, unhurried but relentlessly gentle. He pushes the other strap down, baring me inch by inch, exposed under the weight of his stare.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles over my stomach as if testing how far he can take me. “Is it because you want me?”
I nod, breathless. “Yes.”
His mouth curves, not into a smile but into something deeper, heavier. “Then don’t rush me.” His voice is deep and raspy with the tone that makes me feel more than if he’d barked an order.
Jay moves with unshakable patience, like he has all the time in the world to unwrap me. He peels my sports bra lower down, slow enough that the fabric drags against my skin, a teasing scrape that makes my nipples pebble before he even touches me. His thumb grazes one, testing, and the sound that leaves me is embarrassingly desperate.
“You’re doing so fucking good,” he murmurs. “I want every sound, Liv. Don’t hold back.”
A shaky breath slips out of me, answering his demand. His gaze sharpens as his hand slides lower, brushing my stomach, tracing idle circles just beneath the band of my leggings. The anticipation is torture, but I don’t dare move—not when his eyes are on me like that, warm and commanding all at once.
He hooks his fingers under the waistband, pausing, waiting. I push my hips up in silent permission. Only then does he ease the fabric down, exposing me inch by inch, until the cool air hits my damp skin, and I shiver.
“Perfect,” he says, staring at my pink panties, which I know will be soaked with my desire. “Exactly how I wanted you.”
He kneels between my thighs, pressing them wider with the firm weight of his hands. There’s nothing rushed in the way he touches me now, no frantic clawing, no fumbling. Just measured caresses that make my skin prickle and build heat until I’m shaking. Every brush of his fingers is purposeful, like he’s mapping me, committing every reaction to memory.
I grip the edge of the bench, knuckles white, biting back the plea clawing its way up my throat. He notices anyway, his eyes flicking to mine, dark and certain.
“Don’t you dare look away,” he rasps. “Keep looking at me. I want you to see the way you come alive in my hands.”
The command roots me to the spot, my chest heaving, and he’s right… my entire body comes alive under the careful mercy of his hands.
He starts at the edge of my panties, dragging one fingertip along the damp cotton, slow enough that I jolt. The fabric is already clinging to me, giving away exactly how badly I want this. His mouth curves like he’s proud of it. “Oh my god,” I hiss.
Fire rushes through me, embarrassment and arousal tangled together, but before I can answer, he presses his thumb over the fabric, right where I’m throbbing. The pressure is steady, maddeningly gentle. My hips lift instinctively, searching for more.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
His gentle but firm care speaks to me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
He pushes the fabric aside, exposing me completely, and the cool air makes me gasp. Then his fingers are on me, skin to skin, stroking through my slickness with slow, deliberate care. It feels like he’s cataloguing me, learning which touch makes me twitch, which makes my breath stutter.
The first time his thumb circles my clit, my entire body jerks. I choke on a sound, half-groan, half-whimper, and his eyes flash with satisfaction.
Two fingers slide lower, teasing at my entrance, dipping just inside before retreating. My nails bite into the wood of the bench. “Jay—please.”
He leans closer, his lips brushing my knee as his fingers finally press deeper, stretching me slowly and carefully until I can’t breathe. My head tips back on instinct. I’m so, so close already, a temple built of sand ready to fall, and when his voice is right there…
“Let go for me, gatinha. Quero que gozes nos meus dedos.”I want you to come on my fingers.
I combust.
