My high heels dig into the countertop, steadying me as I lean against the cabinets. My head tips back, eyes closing, breaths coming in short gasps.
Spread eagle under the bright kitchen lights, there’s no hiding, no dim shadows to soften the edges of my vulnerability and lack of experience doing wild, untamed things like this.
Boone moves between my legs, his wide body taking up space, fingers trailing gently up my calves and steadying on my knees. His gaze drops, locked on my core.
“Fucking pretty pussy.”
His hands move downward, tightening on my thighs, firm and possessive, before they slide inward, agonizingly slow.
With my eyes shut, my other senses heighten—the scent of him, leather and cologne; just like his jerseys and gloves, the mingling rhythm of our erratic breaths; the electric hum of his touch as his hands inches closer to where I ache for him the most.
He brushes over my pussy first, teasing, before his fingers glide up to my clit. One light swipe there then another, back and forth. My hips jerk at the contact, and just when I think I can’t take any more of his teasing. His fingers dip lower, parting me before one slides inside.
“So tight,” he murmurs, his voice rough with approval. “I haven’t stopped thinking about this since I left your bed.”
He moves in slow, measured pumps, his fingers testing, coaxing, and every nerve in my body lights up feeling him. My nails dig into the countertop as I try to relax. There’s no chance in hell I’m eating any of that food he prepared for me now.
His palm hits my clit, a solid thump that sends a jolt through me. My hips buck upward, chasing more, and he gives it—pressing deeper, adding a second finger. I moan loudly, the sound like nothing I’ve ever made before.
For most men, two fingers would feel good—great even when I don’t get touched there often—but Boone’s hands are massive and rough.
Two fingers for him might as well be three or four for someone else and he’s stretching me wider. His hand cups my entire pussy like a glove, each stroke almost too much at this angle, overwhelming in the best possible way.
He twists his fingers, hitting that sensitive spot right at my opening and I swear I see stars.
“Boone,” I gasp, my hands flying to hold his wrist steady.
My eyes finally snap open. That’s when I realize he’s been watching me. His gaze is on my face, my eyes, my lips, my hair. His one hand is continuing to move inside me while the other darts out to cup my jaw tenderly. He brushes a finger across my lips.
“You’re beautiful, Rosie. You’re the only person I see when you’re around.”
I want to tell him that can’t be true, but something in his gaze tells me he’s being sincere. That I’ve captured his attention.
His hand moves from my chin down across my breasts before squeezing one of my thighs, steadying me as I arch into him, desperate for more. His fingers pump, twist and squeeze, edging me higher.
“Look at the mess you’re making,” he says as he drags his fingers out of my opening, the wet sound filling the quiet space between us.
And that’s when I notice it. On the hand that’s gripping my thigh and spreading me open.
Aring.
A simple, golden band secured on his ring finger.
He bought a ring? For himself?
When did he have time to do that? That was never part of the deal.
Boone brings his fingers to his lips and sucks them clean of me, his eyes locked on mine the entire time.
“So sweet.”
I’ve never seen something so sensual.
Then, without breaking my gaze, he drops to his knees between my thighs.
The position is so vulnerable, almost as if he’s proposing. Cold sweat breaks out on my neck, but it isn’t nerves, it’s something else. It’s the fear that I might like this more than I should.
That I might like Boone more than I should.
