My hands find his hair, gripping the soft strands, tugging slightly. He groans against my collarbone, apparently liking it, so I do it again, harder. His hips buck up against mine in response, and we both gasp at the friction.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
I pull his mouth back to mine, kissing him desperately. One of his hands slides under my shirt, spreading wide and warm against my lower back. My skin burns wherever he touches, and I want more.
I want his hands everywhere.
In a moment of boldness, I grab the hem of Elias's shirt and tug upward. He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head, and then I'm staring at his bare chest, all sculpted muscle and smooth skin. I run my hands over him, exploring what I've only seen from a distance, tracing the definition of his abs, his pecs, his shoulders.
"You too," he says, fingers playing with the hem of my shirt.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Not because I don't want to, but because I suddenly remember this is Elias asking to see me half-naked, before lifting my arms in silent permission.
He pulls my shirt off slowly, his eyes darkening as more skin is revealed. I'm wearing a simple beige bra, nothing fancy, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I'm in the most expensive lingerie.
"God, Elise." His hands come up to span my waist. "You're so beautiful."
He pulls me back to him, and the feeling of skin against skin is electric. I grind down against him with more purpose now, the ache between my legs demanding attention. His hands roam my back, my sides, skimming the outer curve of my breasts but not quite touching where I need him to.
I roll my hips in a circle, and his head falls back against the couch, eyes closing briefly. "Fuck," he hisses, hands gripping my hips tighter, controlling my movements now. He guides me into a rhythm that has both of us breathing hard.
All of a sudden, Elias's forehead drops to my shoulder, his breathing ragged.
I freeze, confusion cutting through the haze of my desire. His hands move from my waistband to rest more safely on my hips, and he pulls back to look at me, his eyes still dark with want but now showing something like restraint.
It's like a bucket of ice-cold water over my head.
"Elise…"
"That was practice, right?" I say, the word tasting false on my tongue.
"Yeah, okay. Just practice."
Awkwardly, I climb off his lap, immediately missing the contact and the warmth. I grab my shirt from the floor and pull it back on, using the moment to collect myself. My legs are shaky, my body still humming with unsatisfied need.
I sit beside him again, smoothing my hair, trying to slow my racing heart.
After what feels like an eternity, he clears his throat and nods toward the stack of papers on my desk.
"Is this novel finished?"
"Well, Y-yeah. My latest attempt. Probably not my final, final draft."
"Can I read some?"
"It's not ... Ummm, I mean, it's still rough, and?—"
"Please? I'd really like to."
How can I say no when he's looking at me like that? I nod, and he stands, crossing to my desk. He picks up the manuscript with careful hands, like he's handling something from the 1400s. Almost expect to see him blow dust and cobwebs off it.
"Make yourself comfortable," I say, gesturing to the couch as if he has any other place to sit. "It's about 200 pages so far."
He settles back on the couch with the pages, and I busy myself in the kitchen area, making tea. When I return, he's already absorbed, turning pages with focused attention.
I sit on the other end of the couch, sipping my tea and trying not to stare at him as he reads. It's intimate in a different way, watching someone experience my words, my imagination. I see his reactions—the slight widening of his eyes, the way he leans forward, the small smile.
An hour passes, a comfortable silence broken only by the sound of turning pages. I grab a book to distract myself, but find I'm reading the same paragraph over and over, too aware of him beside me.
