His fingers curl slightly, just enough that I feel it. His chest is moulded to my back, broad and warm, his muscled thigh slotted between mine in a way that should make me bolt. Should make me shove him off, retreat, stop whatever the hell this is before it starts.
But it’s already too late, isn’t it?
Brodie MacRae isn’t careful. Not with his words, not with his temper, not with anything. But here, in sleep, he is.
And that does something awful to me.
His fingertips dig into my belly for a split second, and I know he’s waking up. This is my chance to move. My chance to salvage what’s left of my control before—
He makes a sound. An almost pained exhale against the back ofmy neck. Like he’s trying not to pull me closer.
And that’s what has my throat closing up, my chest twisting in on itself.
I know what that sound means.
It means this isn’t just me.
It means I’m not the only one barely holding it together.
I close my eyes, but it’s pointless. There’s no escaping the way my pulse flares beneath his hand, the way I can feel him forcing himself still. He’s trying to be good.
I stay. Just for another moment. Just until morning comes and I can put it back in the box and lock the lid.
But deep down, I know. Morning won’t change a damn thing.
I already feel myself losing.
I am so gone for Brodie.
His palm is hot, branding me through the fabric. His fingers spread, enough to send a warning – he could grip. He could hold. He could lower and… Jesus. Need pulses where I’m already aching, because I remember how it felt when he eased that same hand under my dress, got me whimpering into his mouth like I had no shame.
His breath is speeding up, each exhale hotter against my neck. My nipples pebble, yearning for his mouth, his hands. A broken sigh lodges in my throat. It would take nothing – nothing – for him to move those fingers lower. To find me wet. Waiting for him.
And I think he knows it.
I don’t mean to move.
But his thigh is right there. Powerful, sculpted, heat-etched muscle wedged flush between my legs, and when I shift – the tiniest bit – a jagged shock rolls through me. My breath catches and breaks. I tense around him instinctively, seeking more.
And then I do it again. Testing. A tiny rock forward, enough pressure to feel the heavy drag against my clit. Enough to make a flush of tension knot deep in my belly and my pulse jerk.
I seal my mouth on a gasp that would give me away, drowning in the way it feels. The wayhefeels.
His chest presses harder against my back, breath fraying at the edges, fingers twitching below my navel.
He’s awake.
Waiting to see if I’ll do it again.
And I do. I can’t help it.
It feels so good.
So good I can’t stop.
A groan rips from him, straight from the chest. ‘You really gonna do this to me, Charlie?’ He presses his hand against my stomach. ‘Gonna ride my fucking thigh, all wet and needy, and expect me to just lie here? Expect me to be good? To not flip you over, spread you out, and bury my tongue in you till you’re begging for my cock?’
He exhales hard, forehead resting against the crown of my head. ‘Tell me right now if this is just you getting yourself off. If you need to use me – fuck, baby, I’ll let you. I’ll take it, if that’s what you want.’ A pause, a sharp, shaky inhale. ‘But if this is you giving in – if this is you wanting me the way I want you… Then say the word. Say it, and I’ll make you come so hard you forget every single reason you tried to resist me.’
