“Frankie.”
I’ve never heard him say my name like that—gravelly with need, as if it’s both a curse and a prayer. George shifts so one arm is under my head and I’m lying on my back while he’s wrapped around me.
“I want to know what you like,” he says, brushing my hair away from my face.
When I’m turned on—and Iamalready very turned on—I lose the ability to speak. Stringing words together becomes a near-impossible task. I’m more of ashowthan atellpartner. I will give verbal instruction when necessary, but it’s just not my preference.
“I want to know everything,” George says.
Tilting my face so I can watch his reaction, I take his hand and direct it to the apex of my thighs. I’m wearing only his Parks Canada T-shirt and underwear. His fingers skate over my panties, across the damp heat. George’s eyes flare, and he does it again, pressing against me.
“There,” he says, his voice a scrape.
It’s not a question, but I nod.
George’s gaze pings around my face, then down my body. We both watch as I tilt my hips, wanting more. Needing more. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of my underwear, and he cocks an eyebrow at me, waiting. I help him push it down my legs and kick it off.
His eyelids grow heavier as he takes me in. His tongue runs over his bottom lip. When I squeeze my thighs together, he lets out a soft chiding noise and pushes them apart.
I feel him press against my hip, and I reach for him. My hand steals beneath the waistband of his shorts to wrap around him. It takes all of my effort to quiet the giddy voice in my head that can’t believe I’m touching George like this. He blows out a breath, throbbing against my palm as I give him a test stroke. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, then lets out a groan.
“I’m not usually this sensitive,” he says, fixing his eyes on me. “And you’re not usually this quiet.”
I stare at him and shrug.
He looks at me, and the blue of his eyes is almost completely blacked out, but they glint with mischief. “Then I’ll have to figure out on my own what you like.”
I hum at the sound of his voice, my grip tightening. Because that’s what I want to hear. I want every sense to be obliterated by George.
He slides a finger inside me and I gasp. My back arches off the bed, and I lose my grasp on him, winding both hands around the bedsheets. A rose petal lands on my leg.
“You feel so good,” he says, setting a slow rhythm. “So wet.”
I shudder at the sound of his voice, and he grins. “So you don’t like to talk, but you do like to listen.” His lips rasp against my ear, and I shiver again. “I can work with that.”
I try clamping my legs closed, but George nudges them back apart. I’m swollen and flushed and slick. My thighs begin to shake. I’m coiling tightly, ready to unspool.
“I like you like this,” he says. “You have no idea how much.”
“I have some idea,” I manage to say, looking at the bulge in his shorts, and he smiles darkly.
“You really don’t.”
He’s moving down my body, whispering dirty things against my skin.
“George.” I gasp his name. “I need you.”
“You have me, sweetheart,” he says.
“No,” I say, pulling him up. “I wantyou,” I repeat, holding either side of his face so I can meet his eyes.
George sweeps my hair behind my shoulders. He kisses the base of my neck, and for a moment he rests his lips there. He breathes, as if needing to steady himself, and then he lifts his head. His eyes are full of emotion.
“I only want you,” he says.
I rope my arms around his shoulders, kissing him slowly, our tongues swirling together. I reach for the hem of his shirt, and he kneels, yanking it over his head. His shorts come next. When I get my first full sight of him, I shake my head. The tattoo. The scar. The hard planes of his chest and the flat expanse of his stomach. The arrowing jut of his hips, and the dark path of hair that descends south. And wow.
“What’s that look?” he asks.
