“Why won’t you show me your face?”
His finger rises between us. Presses to his own lips.Shh.
The gesture is so quiet. So absolute. And somehow incredibly intimate. My chest rises and falls, my breathing becoming labored because he’s taking up all the air without even trying to.
His gaze drops, his fingers finding the neckline of my shirt at the same moment—so light I feel it like a live wire, not a touch. Fingertips at the edge of fabric and skin, tracing the collar with the patience of a man who has decided he’s allowed and is taking his time about it.
He stops, and his eyes find mine, asking something that has no words.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. And I don’t stop him as he slides a hand beneath the fabric.
Knuckles graze my breast as he eases the shirt down so unbearably slowly until the fabric drops beneath and my breast meets the cool air of the room as his eyes drink in the sight, their heat a tangible thing against my skin. The sound I make is barely anything. Just air leaving my body.
He goes completely still, his gaze tracking over me with a thoroughness that feels nothing like reverence and everything like hunger—the curve of my breast, my nipple already stiffand aching, the shirt bunched beneath like I was made to be unwrapped exactly like this. I can see what it’s doing to him. Can see him fighting it. Can see him losing.
I’m not breathing.
Neither is he.
Then his hand moves, takes the full weight of my breast in his palm, and my knees nearly give out.
My pussy pulses so hard it borders on pain. A deep, greedy throb of desire that punches straight up through my stomach and into my chest, and I press my thighs together because I need friction, pressure, something, anything to hold against the ache.
It doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
His grip tightens. Slow. Testing the give of me. And I feel it everywhere, in my thighs, in the slick heat flooding between them, in the way my nipple hardens against his palm like my body is trying to communicate something my mouth won’t say.
“You have no idea,” he starts, voice stripped down to almost nothing.
“Of what?”
“What you’ve cost me.” His thumb drags across my nipple. Once. Deliberate.
My head hits the wall behind me.
“Every day. Just existing. Just being you.”
The words go through me like something breaking. “You’ve been watching me.”
“I’ve been breathing you, Sophia Sinclair.”
He pushes his hips forward, letting the full length of his cock press between my legs, and every coherent thought I have dissolves on contact. He’s thick—impossibly, devastatingly thick—the rigid heat of him flush against my core with nothing between us but thin cotton and rough denim and the last shredded remnants of my self-control.
I feel him throb against me, a promise of pleasure my body craves.
My pussy floods. Slick and immediate and completely beyond managing, the ache between my thighs sharpening into something that wants and doesn’t care about context or consequence or what kind of woman this makes me.
I ask, “What’s your name?” Breathless. Barely words.
“I told you.”
“Not just what’s left of it.”
The fabric of his mask shifts. I watch his jaw move underneath it, and my thighs clench in response because even that, even just the suggestion of his mouth, does something criminal to me.
He thrusts forward. Harder this time. The friction hits me like a fist, a raw, electric drag of his cock against my slit through the fabric, and my mouth falls open on a sound I don’t recognize as mine. My fingers find the front of his shirt and grip, white-knuckled, holding on because my legs have made their position extremely clear and their position isdone.
