“Yes.” The word comes out breathier than intended.
I shift to get more comfortable, something hard pressing against my lower back, before my brain catches up and I freeze in the most uncomfortable position, heat rushing through my whole body.
Is this what I’m doing to him just by sitting here?
It’s certainly not a lamp.
His fingers freeze as well.
Is it wrong?
I should probably consider moving away, making some excuse about checking my clothes. But the cabin is cold, and he’s so warm, and something deeper, hungrier than survival instinct keeps me right where I am. In his arms.
“Is this okay?” I whisper, uncertain.
His chest rises with a deep breath against my back, and I feel a slight tremor in his fingers. “Perfect.”
The single word holds a universe of restraint I feel the unfamiliar urge to break. Instead of retreating, I settle more firmly against him, nestling back into the cradle of his body.
A groan vibrates through his chest, low and strained. Then he lifts his hand, trailing it across my collarbone with maddening slowness and up the column of my neck, each pass venturing a little closer to the edge of my towel.
My heartbeat accelerates, pounding so loudly I’m certain he must feel it reverberating through his chest. His other arm shifts around my waist, palm splaying flat against my stomach throughthe thin terry cloth, and I let my head drop back against his shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of my throat.
For a moment, his hand stills, then continues its path, this time dipping beneath the edge of my towel. Just a whisper of callused fingertips against the swell of my breast.
A soft sound escapes my throat—half sigh, half desperate moan.
“Dakota.” His voice is rough gravel against my ear. “If you want me to stop, say it now.”
No.
I need more.
The words burn in my throat.
But I can’t voice them.
I answer by reaching for his hand and placing it firmly over my breast, the towel the only barrier between his palm and my aching skin. His fingers flex once before settling, cupping me more fully, thumb brushing over my nipple through the fabric.
I arch into his touch, shameless in my need.
“Fuck.” He tugs at the edge of the towel, and I don’t resist as it falls open, exposing my chest to the cooler air. His sharp intake of breath makes me feel powerful. “Beautiful.”
His hands cover both my breasts now, palms rough with calluses against my soft skin. The contrast makes me gasp, and certainly not his thumbs brushing over my nipples in feather-light circles until they harden into tight peaks.
His cock is a constant pressure, and the knowledge that he wants me—that this is affecting him as much as it’s affecting me—makes me bold. I shift my hips, rocking back against the rigid length of him.
He retaliates by pinching my nipples between thumb and forefinger, the sweet sting making me whimper and arch for more.
“Careful,” he groans, low and deep, then one large hand covers my mouth gently but firmly. I freeze, confused, until his lips brush the shell of my ear. “You need to be quiet for me. And although I’d love to hear you moan so desperately, sound is dangerous these days.”
I nod against his palm, my breath coming in hot puffs against his fingers.
“Good girl.” The praise sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
His other hand trails down my stomach, fingers skating over my ribs, the dip of my navel, until they reach the apex of my thighs.
I tense in anticipation, my legs parting involuntarily.
