"Here?" he says against my mouth.
I look around the library. The leather chair. The warm lamp. The books.
"Yes," I say.
His hands go to the hem of the grey jumper. He stops. Looks at me. Checking. Always checking.
"I'll tell you if I want to stop," I say. "I promise. But right now, I don't want to stop. I want you to take me and make me something more than what I was before."
He pulls the jumper over my head. His eyes track the skin as it's revealed. His expression does something raw and unguarded that I don't think he'd let me see if he could help it. He looks at me like I'm something that requires his full attention. Like the rest of the room has fallen away.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt, quickly pulling them open.
Underneath he is exactly what he looks like with clothes on, which is solid. Broad. Built in a way that isn't decorative. Scars I don't ask about. The kind of body that belongs to a man who uses it for things other than aesthetics. Tattoos tell a story I hope he shares with me someday.
I press my palm flat against his chest. His skin is hot. His heart is going fast under my hand. I look up at him.
"You're shaking," I say.
"No, I'm not."
"You are."
He looks down at me with an expression that is almost, almost, close to a smile. "Don't ever tell anyone."
I laugh. It comes out soft and real and a little breathless, and his eyes change when he hears it. Something opens. Something that was being held very carefully in check.
He lifts me again. Both arms this time, picking me up like it's nothing, then sits in the chair with me in his lap, straddling him. His hands settle on my hips, and I can feel all of him.
All of him.
My breath catches. He watches it happen. Watches my eyes widen and my lips part and the flush that I can feel climbing my chest and neck. He looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel like it's being lit from underneath.
"Tell me what you want," he says. His voice is lower than I've ever heard it. Rough at the edges. "Be specific."
The directness of it. No games. No performance. Just tell me what you want like it's the most natural question in the world, like my answer matters, like whatever I say is what will happen.
I have never had a man ask me that. Not really. Not like this. Not with his hands steady on my hips and his eyes locked on mine and absolutely zero agenda other than hearing the answer.
"I want you," I say. "I want this. And I want to stop thinking for a while. I want you to be my first."
“I didn’t realize…” he trails off, as I unclip my bra and let it fall down my arms until I pull it away and drop it onto the floor. He groans.
“Only came close one, but he came early and left embarrassed and never called again. Then I moved here and…” the rest is history, I want to say, but stop myself.
I roll my pelvis, grinding against him, and shiver as arousal heats my core.
He dips his head forward, sucking one nipple into his mouth and flicking his tongue, while he palms my other breast in his big, warm hand.
My hips continue their rocking motion, chasing the buzz that I’ve found with him as he continues to lavish attention on my breasts.
He pulls away, his pupils blown. “You’re going to have to stop grinding on me, Mia, or I’ll come in my pants like some horny teenager.”
I stop what I’m doing and stand, pulling my borrowed jeans and new plain panties down over my hips, shucking them off my ankles. He lifts his hips, pushing his trousers and boxers down in one swooping motion.
My eyes go to his erection. Thick and long and resting against his stomach.
“It’s okay if you want to stop,” he says, but I shake my head no.
