But rougher this time.
Needier.
I slide my hand over his bare chest and feel the hard thump of his heartbeat under my palm.
“That feels fast,” I whisper.
“What does?”
“You pretending this conversation isn’t making you want to take me again.”
A rough sound tears out of him.
“Lexie.”
“What?” I murmur, even though I know exactly what.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, and grips my ass hard enough to make me gasp.
“You keep saying things that make it real hard to be patient.”
I should probably be intimidated by that.
Instead, I spread my legs wider for him.
His eyes darken.
“Christ.”
He drags the blanket down and mouths over my throat, my collarbone, while his hand glides over my stomach and lower, teasing but not where I want him. Not yet.
“Weston,” I breathe.
He hums against my skin.
The vibration of it shoots straight between my legs.
He takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks harder, rougher, until my back arches.
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
He gives the other breast the same treatment, his big hand kneading my hip, holding me still while he works me up on purpose. By the time he moves lower, I am wet, aching, and shamelessly impatient.
He catches the waistband of my panties, the only thing I’m wearing, and looks up at me.
“Off?”
“Yes.”
He strips them down my legs, tosses them somewhere onto the floor, and settles between my thighs with a look on his face that nearly makes me come on the spot.
“Still want me?” he asks, voice low.
I stare at him. “Weston.”
