“Where?” It irks me. “Where do you think, Nash?”
His fisted knuckles whiten, but he doesn’t match the fight in my voice. “Show me.”
“Showyou?”
He licks his lips. “Yes.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you want to.”
I remember I’m naked and scoff. “No.Youwant me to.”
“I do,” he admits easily, closing the already small gap between us. “I want to see you come apart the way I’ve thought of for the last eight years”—my lips part—“but even more than that, I want to see you do something becauseyouwant to doit. Not because it’s what you should do for everyone else. Not because you’re broke or your mom needs surgery. Not because you have a fiancé or a husband. Because you want to. Even if you shouldn’t.”
I’m quiet.
“If it’s not what you want then don’t do it.” He takes a single step back, and at the look on his face, I nearly collapse. There’s sincerity but there’s also so muchwant. A palpable yearning between us.
This must be what it’s like to be possessed, because instead of slapping him across the face like I should, I keep my eyes locked on his. He’s right. I want him. I want him so badly I’m aching and shaking. I want him in any capacity I can have him, and right now, that’s him by way of me, so I take it.
“I’d want your hands here,” I admit, bringing my hands to my neck and dragging my fingertips down the side of it. They dance across my chest and skim my breasts. “And here.”
Chills race across my skin from my touch and his eyes.
His throat bobs with a slow swallow.
“I’d need to taste you,” he says. “Would you want that?”
I nod, biting my lip as my hand travels south.
“After you do this.” My fingers find my hip then travel to the spot between my thighs. Though it’s my fingers moving, it’s his I feel. Whispers of touches from a time when his hands had free rein over my body.
Watching him watch me is potent as poison, making the sensation I’ve been chasing start to swirl at the base of my spine. I’ve barely touched myself and I’m about to come. And even now, as badly as I want this—and him—guilt halts my movements and shakes my breath.
Eyes on mine, Nash says, “Tell me you aren’t marrying him.”
I shake my head. “I’m not.”
It’s all he needs to grab my unmoving hand from between my legs, say, “Then I’d do this,” and dip the same fingers that were just on me into his mouth.
I left my shame back in Fontain, because I gasp like a virgin who’s never been touched.
There’s a blue flame burning in his brown eyes as he, once again, sucks my fingers. Only this time, there’s no ring to rescue. His tongue is on my skin for the taste of me alone and the line we’re dancing is so blurred I don’t know which side I’m on. I’m a horrible person, but I can’t stop him or look away. I don’t want to. He pulls my fingers from his mouth and presses them between my legs, wet from him and me. “And this.”
Thunder rolls in the distance—a scolding—as he slowly works my fingers against me. I’m flying straight to the point of no return.
It’s his hands on mine, making me feel everything I want with every stroke. We are muscle memory. What we were and who we are.
He doesn’t slow, he doesn’t look away, and when I whimper, he says to me, “I’ve missed you.”
I can’t even get my “me too” out, because as the building pleasure swirls, I am blindsided by guilt. This is what I want—he is—so damn bad it hurts. So damn bad we’re a thin layer of his clothes away from still not being as close as I need us to be, but I can’t let it happen.
He leans in to kiss me; I’m about to explode from his hand and mere presence.
“Nash,” I whisper, grazing his mouth with mine. “I need you to wait longer.”
As soon as I say it, he stills. Hurt fills his face, tears fill my eyes, and I miss his touch the second it leaves my body.
