The sound was loud in the quiet shelter. My pulse slammed against his palm at my neck.
He drew the zipper down inch by torturous inch. Each metal tooth parting felt like it was peeling back another layer of restraint I hadn’t realized I still had.
When the zipper was fully open, he didn’t push the denim down. He simply slipped his hand inside—over the lace of my panties, cupping me through the fabric.
I gasped.
He was warm. So warm. And the pressure was perfect. Like he was claiming the heat between my legs as his personal territory.
“You’re already soaked,” he said, voice rougher now. “I can feel it through the lace.”
I whimpered. Couldn’t help it.
His middle finger pressed just slightly—enough to part my folds through the damp fabric, enough to find the swollen bud of my clit and settle there without moving.
“Don’t,” he warned when my hips tried to rock forward. His grip on my neck tightened fractionally. “You stay still until I say.”
My thighs trembled. I locked my knees and forced myself to obey.
“Good girl.”
The praise landed like a spark on dry tinder. My whole body clenched around nothing, desperate for more.
He circled once—slow, deliberate, barely enough pressure to tease. My breath stuttered.
Again.
Slower.
My head tipped back against his shoulder. He let me. Let me lean into him while he kept that maddening, feather-light pressure on my clit through soaked lace.
“You want my fingers inside you,” he said against my temple. Statement. Fact.
“Yes.”
“You want to come on them.”
“Please.”
“Not yet.”
He pressed harder—just enough to make stars flicker behind my closed lids—then eased off completely.
I made a broken sound.
His hand left my panties. I felt the absence like a physical ache.
He turned me slowly until I faced him fully. My jeans hung open, panties clinging wetly to my skin. My bra was still on, but my breasts felt heavy, nipples visibly straining against lace.
He looked down at me like I was something he’d waited years to see.
Then he backed me up until the edge of the sturdy wooden table met the backs of my thighs.
“Sit.”
I did. The cold wood against the bare skin above my jeans made me shiver.
He stepped between my knees, spreading them wider with his hips.
