Fuck, his confidence.
Whatever he questioned about stairs and hills and dance floors, he did not question this. I could feel it in every deliberate movement. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he liked it—liked the way my breath hitched, liked the way I kept reaching for something to hold on to and only found him.
A sound tore out of me, half laugh and half sob. My thighs were shaking now, muscles trembling with effort. I let one hand slip, sinking into his hair. The strands were thick and soft under my fingers, his head angling into my touch like he wanted more of that too.
I tried to hold back. I really did. This was supposed to be a lesson, a first step, not me losing my mind on his face likesome cautionary tale about mixing unresolved feelings with sex homework.
Then he moaned, low and rough, like he was enjoying this just as much as I was, and my last scrap of restraint snapped.
My hips started to move on their own, tiny helpless rolls that chased whatever he was giving me. He tightened his grip, guiding me, and the combination of him holding me there and letting me move wrecked whatever was left of my composure.
“Wes,” I choked out, every muscle going tight as a wire. “I—I can’t?—”
Everything inside me cinched tight at once. My thighs shook, my spine bowing as heat coiled sharp and bright, then snapped. A broken sound tore out of me—half sob, half his name—as the world narrowed to the rush of release rolling through me in helpless waves.
I pitched forward, catching myself with one hand on the wall above the headboard, the other still buried in his hair. My thighs quivered around his head, breath sawing in and out like I’d just sprinted the length of the beach.
He eased up slowly, one last maddeningly gentle pass of his tongue that sent aftershocks skittering through me. His hands loosened on my hips, sliding up to steady my waist instead, holding me there while I remembered how to exist in my own body again.
Holy. Shit.
Every man before him felt like an echo—all suggestion and no resonance. Wes Vaughn had just taken my carefully constructed ideas about sex and blown them straight to hell, all without moving from one spot on the bed. That man didn’t just put up with eating pussy, he reveled in it.
I’d made my offer thinking I was going to help him get his mojo back.
Right now, shaking and half draped over the headboard, I was pretty sure he’d just erased everyone who’d come before him like they’d never existed at all.
Carefully, I forced my knees to unlock.
Every muscle in my body felt like it had been unplugged and plugged back in sideways. I eased my weight off him an inch at a time, my shaky thighs protesting as I shifted. The last thing I wanted was to slide wrong and grind down on his leg.
“I’ve got you,” Wes murmured, voice rough.
His hands slid from my hips to my waist, steadying, guiding. He helped me turn, helped me find the mattress, helped me settle beside him instead of collapsing like a stunned rag doll. My back hit the sheets, and I stared up at the ceiling, chest rising too fast, lungs doing a terrible job pretending they remembered how to work.
“You okay?” he asked.
A shaky laugh hiccuped out of me. “I’m not entirely sure I remember my own name.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up. There was still moisture glinting at his jaw, his hair a little mussed from my fingers. The sight sent a fresh, traitorous flush sweeping over my skin.
“Clara,” he said, like it was an answer, not a question. “There. Now you remember.”
I let out a wobbly breath. “Show-off.”
We just looked at each other, the air between us thick and quiet. Then he shifted, reaching blindly until his fingers found the fallen towel on the floor.
“C’mere,” he said softly.
He sat up, bracing one hand behind him, and pulled me gently toward his lap. The bravado from a few minutes ago was gone; what was left was careful and almost shy. He used the towel to wipe between my thighs with a tenderness that mademy throat go tight, his touch slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
“Sorry,” he muttered, gaze flicking up once to meet mine. “I just ... want you comfortable.”
“You just melted my spine,” I said, dazed. “Comfortable is relative at this point.”
He huffed out a laugh, the sound low and pleased. When he was satisfied, he tossed the towel back onto the floor and pushed off the bed, moving with that familiar care he kept pretending I didn’t notice. He crossed to the dresser like he’d done it a hundred times, opened the top drawer, and rummaged until he found an old T-shirt.
“Arms,” he said.
