Reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, I tug at it, urging him to take it off. I need to see all of him.
He pulls at the sleeves of his denim jacket first, sliding each one down the length of his arms. His t-shirt next, pulling it over his head in one tug.
My breath hitches in my throat, his eyes remain glued on mine.
The room is dark, illuminated only just, but it’s enough to highlight every curve in his torso; every muscle and every vein that tattoos his skin, glowing, making him look golden, yet somehow pearlescent, too.
I’ve been lucky enough to accidentally see Harley Wingrove half-naked so many times in the last few weeks, and each time, I’m in awe, but always force myself to look away.
This time, I allow myself tolook.
Allow myself to look at him likethis.
Allow myself to look at him and beg him to fuck me with my eyes.
Because that’s exactly what I want, and I’ve never wanted anyone or anything more.
I see everything I need to see, even though the room is barely lit. A subtle amount of hair on his chest that I never noticed before, with a small birthmark right under his left peck.
A long, nearly faded scar sits slightly beneath his collarbone on the right side. His biceps and forearms are decorated with veins and his six-pack that I’ve dreamed about, leading to the most alluring V I’ve ever seen on a man.
There’s only one body part of his that I haven’t seen yet, and am so desperate to.
To touch.
Totaste.
Feeling my underwear soak at the mere sight of him, I copyhis movements, slipping off my denim jacket awkwardly, sleeve by sleeve, lifting my dress above my head, leaving me in nothing but a matching white lingerie set.
I didn’t plan on having sex with him tonight, but I never leave the house in mismatched underwear.
Just in case.
Stopping mid movement, his eyes meet mine before they roam down my body again, but this time, I’m almost naked and more vulnerable, but I feel more confident than I ever have.
He makes me feel sexy and beautiful and everything in-between without even uttering a word. The look on his face tells me everything I need to know.
Slowly, his eyes wander back up to meet my gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask, as his emerald eyes twinkle, full of hunger.
"Like what?" He smirks, hovering his body over mine.
"Like you haven’t eaten in days, and I’m the only thing on the menu." I raise a brow as he licks his lips, his clenched jaw softening.
"Because, Herring, I’ve been fucking starving for fourteen years."
His lips fuse together with mine and we pick back up where we left off. Our mouths move in sync, like a choreographed routine that we’ve practiced together for years, until his lips move from mine, sprinkling kisses down my jaw, down the length of my neck.
One of his hands snakes its way up my back, gliding his fingertips up my spine softly before moving to unclip my bra and I shiver, excited to be on display for him.
Sliding my bra off my arms and away from my chest, his hand wanders, covering every inch of my stomach, cupping my breasts one at a time, his tongue finally finding my nipples, my hips involuntarily rocking beneath him.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he whispers to me, his thumb dragging along my bottom lip.
'I’ve never been surer',is what I want to say, but the words refuse to leave my mouth, so I just nod frantically and, apparently, it’s the only answer he needs.
"I’ve waited so long for this moment, Herring. I’m going to take my time with you," he says, but I shake my head at him.
"Take your time with me later. Or tomorrow. Or even the next day. I don’t care when you do it or how long it takes. But right now, I just need to feel you inside me," I beg, not caring if I sound too desperate.
