I grab her other wrist. Pin that one too. Both hands above her head now, my fingers wrapped around her wrists, her chest rising and falling fast beneath the dark-green fabric.
"Then let's play."
I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. She kisses back just as desperately—teeth and tongue and the soft sounds she makes when I press the full length of my body against hers. All pretense of innocence burns off like fog in sunlight.
When I pull back, she's breathless. Eyes dark. Mouth swollen.
"Bedroom. Now."
"Make me," she whispers again.
So I do.
I release her wrists, grip her waist, and lift. She wraps her legs around me automatically—muscle memory now, the geometryof us something her body knows without instruction. I carry her toward the bedroom. She's kissing my neck. My jaw. The hinge of it where the muscle tightens when I clench my teeth. Anywhere she can reach.
"You made me so needy," I murmur against her mouth.
"I know." She bites my lower lip. Not gently. "That was the point."
Iset her on the edge of the bed. She's flushed—cheeks, throat, the exposed strip of chest above her neckline—and her hands are already reaching for me, pulling at my shirt, tugging buttons with impatient fingers.
"Slow down," I say. But I'm already pulling the shirt over my head because buttons are taking too long.
"No." She drags her nails down my bare chest—light, deliberate, watching the muscles contract in her wake. "We did slow yesterday. I don't want slow."
She reaches for my belt. I catch her hands.
"Not yet."
"West—"
"Lie back."
She narrows her eyes. But she lies back. The dress is bunched around her hips, and I can see her underwear—simple white cotton, soaked through, and the sight of it nearly drops me to my knees.
Instead, I reach for the hem of her dress. Pull it up and over her head in one motion. She helps, arms lifting, and then it's gone and she's lying there in nothing but that white cotton and the bracelet and the afternoon light painting gold bars across her stomach.
I look at her. Really look.
She squirms. "Stop staring."
"No."
"It's unnerving."
"It's admiring."
I hook my fingers into the waistband of her underwear. Pull them down her legs. Slow—dragging them along her thighs, her calves, over her ankles. She watches me,breathing hard.
I toss them aside. Undo my belt. Drop my pants. Step out of everything.
Her gaze drops. Lingers. Her lips part.
"Who’s staring now?" I point out.
"Admiring," she corrects, and despite everything—the wanting, the ache, the fact that I can barely think—I almost smile.
I reach for the nightstand. Condom. The foil tears between my teeth—hands too occupied with watching her to bother with finesse—and I roll it down my length, stroking once to settle it.
