Like he’s never felt anything like it before and he’s not sure he’s allowed to.
“You’re so soft,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice thick with awe. “How are you so soft?”
His lips find mine again before I can answer as he lightly drags his fingers toward my bare breast. His hand turns, palm hovering above my skin, and then, instead of touching where I expect, he presses it flat against my sternum.
He goes motionless.
“Your heart,” he whispers. “I can feel it.”
He says it like it’s impossible. A miracle he can’t quite believe.
“I’ve never felt anyone else’s heart before.”
I ache for him. I think back to Remi and me as kids, taking turns pressing our ears to each other, giggling at the soft lub-dub of our hearts, gasping when it sped up.
“It’s so loud, Remi!”
“Since we’re twins, do you think our hearts beat at the same time, Becky?”
“I bet they do!”
We were so sure of it. So sure of everything. I didn’t know how lucky I was back then. Until this moment, I didn’t realize some people never get that.
Carrson has his hand on me. His fingers shift slightly, not pressing…listening. “It’s fast.” He lifts his fingers and taps them against my skin. Counting out the thuds of my heart. As if I’m made of music and he wants to capture the beat.
“You’re making it do that,” I say. “Go quick like that.”
He breaks the pattern. “I am?” he asks with a quiet kind of wonder.
I let out a small, breathless laugh. “It’s all you.”
His head tilts down toward my chest, and I can tell he’s staring at my breast, even though it’s too dark to see. Hesitantly, his hand brushes across my nipple, like he’s not sure what will happen if he touches me there. I gasp, swallowing the sound, afraid I’ll startle him if I react too loudly. There’s a fragility here. A thin, delicate balance. Carrson slides his palm up to cup me, squeezing gently.
My breath snags, caught halfway in like my body forgot what to do next.
Without sight, every touch intensifies, until there’s nothing left but him. The warmth of his palm. The hesitant sweep of his fingers. Each pause deliberate, like he’s testing, waiting to see whether I’ll pull away or lean into it.
That’s what undoes me. His restraint. How he’s trying. That simple, careful caress, the soft way he holds me, explores me, stroking and kneading my breast, sends a jolt of need in between my legs.
He has no idea the power he holds.
How easily he could ruin me. How badly I want him to.
A shudder goes through me as I arch into his hand. His thumb circles, rough against sensitive skin. Heat pools low, spreading, turning into a wanton kind of need.
“Good?” he asks, as his touch grows stronger. He pinches my nipple lightly before releasing, then repeating, firmer now.
“Yes—” My hips swivel instinctively, searching for more, consumed with the need for friction. “So good.”
“I want—can I—” he stutters out like he’s not even sure what to ask for.
“Put your mouth on me,” I answer.
He pauses, then lowers his head to my chest. The first touch is tentative. Curious. Then his lips close around my breast, warm and careful.
I cry out, overwhelmed by the sensation. “Yes,” I gasp, voice shaking. “More.”
He responds instantly. Not reckless but not holding back like he was before. His tongue flicks my nipple and his teeth graze it, the pleasure so intense it almost hurts.
