“I want it,” I said, voice low. “I want you to touch me.”
That pleased him.
Not in a playful way.
In the way a man is pleased when a thing becomes honest.
He stepped closer until his body heat wrapped around mine. His hand at my throat slid down to the collar of my sleep shirt.
“Take it off,” he said.
I obeyed.
The fabric lifted over my head, leaving me in nothing but thin sleep shorts and bare skin. The room felt colder instantly.
His gaze tracked down my body slowly, clinically, like he was cataloging.
Then his hand slid to my waist and gripped.
Hard.
He pulled me against him.
I felt him—solid, unyielding, the line of his erection already there through denim.
My breath left in a sound I didn’t mean to make.
“Responsive,” he murmured near my ear. “Good girl.”
The words hit like a strike.
My whole body lit.
He didn’t kiss me.
He didn’t give me softness.
He held me there, pinned against him by one hand, while the other slid down and cupped me through the shorts.
I jolted.
Not because it was too rough.
Because it was exactly where I’d been aching.
His palm pressed firmly, finding the slick heat through fabric, and my knees threatened to buckle.
“Already,” he said, voice rougher now. “Christ.”
His fingers hooked under the waistband and tugged.
A silent question disguised as an order.
I lifted my hips enough for him to pull them down.
The cold air hit my bare skin—and then his hand replaced it, warm and heavy, covering me completely.
No barrier.
