And itworked.
He made it seem so normal to do it, so natural. So like nothing at all, really.
She didn’t have to worry about consequences or consider someone else’s judgment. He’d run a red line through the idea of anybody minding. All that mattered was doing it, giving in to it, feeling it. Letting her body take over—andgod, her body wanted to. Suddenly every nerve ending was alive, every repressed desire was awake. And every single one of them flowed through her in a hot wave.
Like feeling coming back to a long-disused limb.
It was indescribable. Impossible to stop.
Impossible to resist, too. Her hand was between her legs before she had even really thought about it, shoving under her panties in a way that felt like the right thingto do. Probably he didn’t want her to drag this out. Most likely he could only stretch to something speedily done.
Only somehow, the verysecondhe heard the snap of elastic, he spoke into the heated silence. “No, not like that. Slow. Slow,” he murmured, so low and soft it seemed to vibrate through her. And suddenly she was thinking of words likesavoringwith regard to him. Despite how impossible the idea of him savoring anything was.He can’t be, he couldn’t be; it’s incredible he’s even going this far, she thought. And yet when she protested, when she said:
“But the slower I am the worse I’ll get.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Good, that’s the way it should be,” he murmured, as firm and sure as before but with an extra something in his voice now. An urgent quality that she could hardly fathom or stand. And she fathomed and stood it even less when he continued. “Take it nice and easy and slow. Hook your fingers into the sides of those tight little panties and slide them off, all the way off. Then when you’re done with that, when you’re all bare, I want you to do something else for me.”
For, she thought.Me, she thought.
And did her best to scoff at it.
“You don’t. There’s no way.”
“Does it sound like there isn’t?”
“No, but—”
“Then maybe just go ahead.”
“Go ahead and do what?
“Spread those soft thighs.”
Her eyes closed then. Mostly for the wordspread, andhow incredibly lewd it sounded coming from someone so practical, so committed to never indulging in anything at all. But there was also something about the wordsoft. Something frivolous about it, a small detail he didn’t need to add, but had.
And of course there was what that suggested.
That he had noticed. Looked over in the car, and seen the way her thighs kissed. Watched the way material molded to the curve of them, slid up and exposed how tender they looked. Maybe even imagined what it would be like to put his hand between and urge them open himself.
Just like inWhat I Wouldn’t Do.
Just like that, as if he really did know how to be that way.
Yet even these incendiary thoughts couldn’t quite get her over one particular obstacle. “I—I don’t usually do that,” she stuttered out, thinking of her typical dwindled-to-almost-nothing routine. On her side, thighs pressed tight together. Almost like she was doing nothing at all.
But apparently nothing at all wasn’t enough for him.
“Because you hate it.”
“No, it just feels like—”
“Too much? Too like you’re doing something dirty?”
She pressed her lips together to keep the answer in.
It was fine, though. Her silence told him enough.
