I lick my lips, glance at the T-shirt in my way. “I want it off.”
“So take it off.” His thumb traces the curve of my jaw, voice so gravelly it makes me shudder. “You don’t need to ask me for permission. Whatever you want, Eva, you can have.”
The words caress my chest, and, slowly, I drag my hands upward, pulling his T-shirt up little by little. I’ve reached the tops of his abs when he takes a small step back and away from me.
My eyes narrow, and by the lazy quirk of his lips, I realize he’s playing with me. Daring me to take what I want.
An unexpected thrill races through me, just strong enough to push my feet forward.
I never say no to a challenge.
Holding Easton’s gaze, I close the gap between us. A small wave of courage pulses like a livewire. My fingers aren’t steady or skilled when they curl around the hem of his T-shirt, but they’re bold, pushing his shirt higher. My heart thumps in my chest, demanding I take it:
Take what I want.
Because Easton isn’t like them.
Because he makes me feel likeEva. Strong and bewitching. Maybe even deserving.
That slippery word—deserving—cloaks me in silk, its texture soothing and desirable. He lifts his arms for me to push the T-shirt over his shoulders, but when I struggle to remove it due to the height difference, he releases an amused breath, pulls the material over his head, and drops it to the floor.
I stare shamelessly. I’ve seen him shirtless, thanks to living together and witnessing countless sweaty football practices, but I’ve never been so close. The defined lines of his abs move up and down with each shallow, uneven breath, and my fingers burn with the need to touch them. But first, I unbutton his jeans. Then I slowly pull the zipper down.
He keeps his arms at his sides, but goose bumps race up my body when they flex and contract, his hands balling into fists, then releasing. He lets me explore him, and each slow squeeze of his fists pumps a new wave of strength and lust into me.
In The Pitts, Monica used to say the sexiest men are the ones so overtaken by desire they can’t hold back. I disagree. Easton is living, breathing proof there’s nothing sexier than when someone who wants you badly—so badly his entire bodyshakeswith need—restrains himself for your sake.
The sight is intoxicating.
Moving.
Powerful.
Black boxer briefs peek out from beneath his jeans that hang low and reveal a sharp V-cut I’ve only fantasized about touching. My palms go damp, skin blazing. Biting my lip, I trace my fingers along the delicious V-cut. Then, I move down farther to skim the dark trail of hair leading beneath his briefs.
Hunger, thirst, need.
And something else. Somethingmore.
My chest thumps.
It’s so loud—
Ba-bum.
So poignant—
Ba-bum.
So naked—
Ba-bum.
The pressure thickens, sticks to the back of my throat, and my hands wander up over his abs, which tense beneath my touch. His chest is sculpted, shoulders broad. I touch him everywhere, but still, I need more. I cup both sides of his jaw, and intense, whiskey irises consume me.
This constant, inherent pull toward him—a pull that once started as small but vibrant as a candle’s flame—expands in my body, shooting heat through every vein, every inhale, every heartbeat. I wonder if this much emotion could kill a person. It seeps from my pores, prickles along every inch of skin. I’m going to fucking burst from it.
Before he can blink, I’m on my tiptoes, my mouth on his. An unsteady brush of lips, a whisper of a kiss. It’s abrupt and unskilled. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I need it.
