“Stay still,” he ordered.
I tried. God, I tried.
He popped the button of my jeans. Dragged the zipper down. Slid his hand inside—over lace panties already soaked through—and cupped me fully.
I gasped, head tipping back against his shoulder.
“So wet you’re dripping through the fabric,” he murmured. “You’ve been like this since the shelter, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
His middle finger pressed against my entrance through the lace—pushing just enough to part me, but not enough to breach.
“Beg me to touch you properly.”
“Please, Cassian,” I whispered. “Please touch me. Skin to skin. I need?—”
He hooked the crotch of my panties aside with one finger.
Cool air hit slick, swollen flesh.
Then his fingers were there—two of them sliding through my folds, gathering wetness, circling my clit with agonizing slowness.
My knees buckled.
He caught me with an arm around my waist, pinning me back against his chest.
“Legs apart,” he said.
I widened my stance as far as the half-lowered jeans allowed.
He rewarded me—pushing two fingers inside in one slow, deep thrust.
I cried out, walls clenching around the sudden fullness.
He didn’t pump. He curled them instead—pressing against that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyes—while his thumb found my clit and circled with ruthless precision.
“You’re going to come like this,” he said against my ear. “Against this wall. With my fingers inside you and your hands braced like you’re being arrested. And you’re going to hold it until I say.”
Tears pricked my eyes. The pressure built so fast, so viciously, that my thighs shook.
“Cassian—please?—”
“Not yet.”
He slowed his fingers—almost stopping—then thrust again, harder, deeper.
My whole body went taut, hovering right on the edge.
He pulled his fingers out completely.
I sobbed—actual, broken sound—hips chasing his hand uselessly.
He turned me around, back to the wall now, and caged me with his arms on either side of my head.
“Look at me.”
I did. Tears streaked my cheeks. Lips swollen. Chest heaving.
