Not even when he asked, “Is this all right?”
Though, probably that was for the best.
If he’d been facing her, she would have kissed him.
She knew she would have. She almost did it anyway, even though his mouth was out of reach. The side of his face was just that tempting—all iron filing stubble, and incredible cheekbones, and that jaw, god, that jaw, oh, she had to take her mind off that jaw. Now, before she did something incredibly stupid.
Likelickinghim.
“Yes. Yeah. But do it harder,” she said.
Only this time, he decided to play the fool.
“I don’t know what you mean by harder.”
“Hold me harder. Harder and closer to you.”
“Why would you want me to do that?”
“So I can see if I can still break your grip,” she said, though she knew that wasn’t why she wanted him to do it at all. She was barely surewhatit was about anymore—yet somehow, she couldn’t stop. It was taking on a life of his own, now.
And she suspected he knew it.
His tone was wary when he said, “I haven’t even shown you how to do that yet.”
“Then show me. Tell me how to get out of this.”
“You have to put your hands over mine.”
“I see. I get it. Like this, you mean?”
She didn’t mean to relish the contact.
But she knew she did. She knew itlookedlike she did. His gaze whipped to hers the moment she curled her fingers around his fists. And it stayed there, as he demanded she do it less gently. “You have to almost hurt me,” he said, in a voice that didn’t seem like his own anymore. It was rough and pleading and kind of lost.
Though, she understood completely.
She had become a different person too.
Somehow, she had become the girl she’d been before any of this happened. The one who enjoyed teasing and loved flirting and would have relished his hands in hers. Shedidrelish his hands in hers. They were warm and big under her palms, and the skin there was so much smoother than she’d imagined.
Plus, he was looking at her.
He was looking at her in this searching, uncertain way, as if it washimwho didn’t know how to deal with any of this. He was the troubled one. He was the one who struggled with being so close and holding her in his fists. Not her, not her, oh god, it meant something else entirely to her, to the point where she could say, “I want you to throw me onto the mat.”
And feel nothing but a goddamn fuckingthrill.
No pain, no flashbacks, no nothing.
In fact, the only objection washis.
“Oh god, Lydia, I can’t do that.”
“Yes you can, you can.”
“I can, but I don’t want to.”
“Because you think I’m so fragile?
