He kissed me again — deep, thorough, taking his time now that he had me where he wanted me. His free hand slid up my thigh, pushing the red silk higher, inch by agonizing inch. His fingers traced the edge of my underwear, feather-light, barely a touch.
I arched into his hand. He pulled back.
"I said don't move."
"I can't help it."
"You can." His mouth found my neck, teeth grazing the spot just below my ear. "You're the most disciplined person I've ever met when you want something badly enough. So be disciplined."
He had a point. I hated that he had a point.
I held still. It was the hardest thing I'd done all week, including the part where someone shot at me.
"Good," he murmured against my skin. The word sank into me — warm, approving, sending heat radiating down my spine. "That's my good girl."
Oh.
Oh.
I hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected the way those two words hit me — not patronizing, not diminishing, but like being seen. Like he was telling me I'd done something right, and I'd been waiting longer than I knew to hear it.
His hand slid between my thighs. Fingers pressing against the thin cotton, finding me already wet, and his breath caught.
"Jesus, Charlie."
"Shut up."
"No." He stroked me through the fabric — slow, deliberate. "I don't think I will." His thumb found my clit and pressed, just enough pressure to make me gasp. "You're soaked. How long have you been thinking about this?"
"I haven't —"
"Lie." Another stroke, harder. "Try again."
"Since the closet," I admitted, breathless. "At the hotel. When you were pressed against me and I could feel —"
"Feel what?"
"You. All of you. And you were so —" I broke off as his thumb circled, sending sparks through every nerve ending I owned. "God. You were so controlled. So in charge. And I wanted — I wanted —"
"Wanted what?"
"Wanted you to not be." I looked up at him, wrists pinned above my head, his hand between my thighs. "Wanted to make you lose it."
His eyes went dark. Something dangerous flickered in them — desire, restraint, the effort of holding both at the same time.
"Careful what you wish for." He hooked his fingers under the waistband of my underwear. "Lift your hips."
I did. He pulled the fabric down my thighs, off one ankle, and tossed it somewhere in the dark. The cool air hit my bare skin and I shivered.
"Color?"
"Green. Very, very green."
His hand returned — no barrier now — and the first touch of his fingers against bare, sensitive skin made me cry out. Not quietly. His hand tightened on my wrists.
"That's it," he said, low and rough. "Let me hear you."
"Someone could —"
