“This is a bad idea.”
He nods. “Probably.”
We sit in that.
Then he murmurs, “Can I kiss you anyway?”
My heart slams against my ribs.
I should say no.
I should get up, walk to my room, lock the door, and rethink every choice that led me here.
Instead, I whisper, “Yes.”
One hand comes to my jaw, warm and firm, guiding my face up to his. The other slides to my waist, fingers spanning almost the whole thing, pulling me closer with a slow, hungry certainty.
His mouth finds mine, and everything in me goes molten.
Silas kisses like he wants to taste every thought I’ve ever had. His thumb strokes my cheek, his other hand glides up my spine, leaving heat in its wake. When his fingers reach the back of my neck, he tips my head slightly, angling me exactly how he wants, and my knees nearly give out.
I make a small sound, and he swallows it with a low groan of his own.
“Come here,” he murmurs against my mouth, shifting us both, and suddenly I’m in his lap, straddling his thighs, dress riding up, his hands sliding confidently to my hips like he’s been waiting years to put them there.
My breath catches, sharp and involuntary.
“Yeah,” he whispers, eyes darkening as he takes me in. “That’s it.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, hungrier, and my fingers slide into his hair like they’re meant to live there. He groans, pulling me tighter against him, chest to chest, heat meeting heat. His lips trail down my jaw, my throat, the curve of my neck.
“Delaney…” My name is a broken sigh against my skin as his fingers edge further down. “You’re killin’ me.”
His hands bunch up my dress and slide, rough calluses scraping heat up my thighs, fingers digging hard enough to say this is not a careful night, one hand spanning my thigh as it pushes under the hem.
His thumb traces higher.
And higher.
The first brush along my inner seam makes me gasp. I’m wet already, so ready it’s almost pitiful. His mouth finds my earlobe, laughter rumbling into my neck as he notices.
“You’re fuckin’ soaked, Delaney. Been thinking about this all night?”
I dig my nails into his scalp, pulling him harder against my mouth.
“Can’t help it,” I hiss, “not with how you look at me. Not with how you…”
His fingers slide the last inch, under the edge of my underwear, and I bite his lip when he finds me. He laughs, soft and dark, working me with slow, teasing strokes, almost like he wants to see how long I’ll beg.
But I won’t beg. I refuse.
I rock against him, breathless, using every muscle in my thighs to roll my hips into the heel of his palm.
His jaw clenches. That makes me grin.
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, shaking just enough to let me know I’m not the only one trembling.
“I want you to…” I bite down on the word, cheeks flushed, because holy hell, I don’t know how to say it. I’ve never been this blunt with anyone before. The sentence unspools in my mind, unspeakable and unraveling, and I barely get out, “I want your fingers in me.”
