He slides the wedding band off his left hand, the cold metal glinting in the light, and rolls it between his fingers as he gazes at it before looking up at me.
“I bought this,” he says, his tone low, his eyes hooded, gaze focused on nothing but me. “Today."
I nod slowly, unsure of what to say. “I see…”
He doesn’t rush; his motions are calculated. He takes the ring and brushes it across my clit, the chill of the metal jolting through my core.
My breath catches, and when I squirm, his lips quirk into a knowing grin. He does it again, dragging the ring with perfect precision across the most sensitive and stimulated part of my body while cataloging every tiny reaction.
Damn if that doesn’t describe him perfectly. He’s attentive, intense, remembering, utterly consuming. I’ve never met a man like him.
“I want to do something,” he murmurs, his voice rough as he watches my face, “but I need your permission first.”
“Okay…” My voice wobbles, and I can’t tell whether it’s nerves because hebought a freaking ringor if it’s in anticipation of what he’ll say next.
That wolfish grin of his spreads. “I want to put this inside you—for just a moment.”
“What?” My chest heaves as I pant, trying to keep up.
“I want my ring coated in you,” he says, his voice dark and utterly unapologetic, “your arousal just for me. Your desire coating my fingers. So that when I wear it, I can always smell you on my hand.”
My eyes widen.
He’s going to put thatwhere? And then not going to wash it?
It’s wild. Completely out of character for me. If you’d asked Rosie Prescott a year ago the kind of man she’d end up marrying, I’d have said someone safe, stable. Maybe a nice accountant or a lawyer who understands my demanding schedule but never expects too much from me.
Perhaps a guy like my co-worker Dierks. A bit grumpy, but career first minded and unsurprising with his bedroom preferences.
Definitelynota professional hockey player who wants to place his wedding band inside my pussy just so it smells like me when we’re apart.
He lowers his face to my opening, uses two fingers to part me, and inhales deeply.
“You are intoxicating,” he murmurs on a groan.
I’ve never met anyone like him. Someone who can dismantle everything I thought I found attractive in a single moment. Someone who can rewrite the rules of attraction, bend the laws of sensuality and desire, and leave me questioning precedents I was certain were settled.
And perhaps that’s why I’m attracted to him.
I nod, barely breathing.
“Words, Rosie. Give me permission to coat this in your fragrance.”
“Yes. You can… you can do that.”
He smiles. Slow, wicked, and deeply satisfied by my response. Then he slides the ring back onto his finger and without hesitation, pushes the entire digit inside me until I can’t see it anymore.
I draw in a sharp breath, my pussy contracts around him in a squeeze.
The sensation is different from before, the metal cool and foreign as it bumps against my walls, hitting every sensitive spot in ways I didn’t expect.
He works his finger in and out, unhurried, rolls it against the inside of my opening where it’s most sensitive. Each movement sparks new jolts of pleasure. Then he pulls it out, drags my wetness across my clit, and shoves it back in—this time with his middle finger alongside it.
My hips jerk forward, a desperate reaction.
“I need more, Boone,” I moan. Because I’ve never been more turned on and desperate to come in my entire life.
“Fuck, Rosie,” he growls, his voice like gravel, his free thumb brushing circles on my thigh as he keeps moving.
