“Christ,” he mutters against my skin.
My head tips back before I can stop it.
He catches that too. Every tiny thing. The shaky breath. The way my thighs press together. The way my hands stop clutching and start feeling. The rough leather of his cut. The hard muscle underneath. His chest. His shoulders. The broad line of his back.
He is so much man under my hands it barely feels real.
One of his hands slides from my hip down to my thigh.
He stops there.
Just holds.
Like he is asking.
I nod before I even know what I am agreeing to.
His eyes close for one second, sharp and pained, like that tiny bit of permission cost him.
Then his hand moves higher.
Not where I expect. Not between my legs.
Just up. Slow. Over the bare skin under the hem of his shirt, his palm rough and hot against the back of my thigh until his fingers curl there and hold.
My whole body arches before I can stop it.
He swears under his breath.
The sound sends heat rushing straight through me.
I drag one hand down from the leather to the hem of his cut, then underneath, slipping past it and under his shirt.
Hot skin.
He goes still again.
He wants this. Maybe too much.
I feel it in the way his breathing changes. In the way the hand on my thigh flexes once hard enough to make me gasp. In the way he kisses me again like he is trying to burn the taste of me into memory.
I do not know how long we stay like that.
Long enough for the room to disappear.
Long enough for my skin to feel too tight.
Long enough that when his hand finally leaves my thigh and both his hands settle at my waist again, I almost make a sound at the loss.
His forehead drops to mine.
His breathing is rough.
So is mine.
For one second, neither of us says anything.
Then he steps back.
