Hotter.
He stops in front of me, so close our toes are touching.
“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and this would have been some insane dream,” he murmurs.
“You dreaming about me, Hawkins?”
He smirks. “Maybe.”
I place a hand on his chest. “And what am I doing in these dreams?”
He sucks in a breath. “I fear you will not like me if I tell you.”
I laugh. “Are they that good?”
“No. They’re that bad, miss Greer.” His eyes darken and he holds my cheek in his hand guiding my lips to his.
His hands slide down my arms, his fingers curling around my waist. His mouth lingers at the corner of mine, teasing. He pulls back just slightly, resting his forehead against mine.
“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod. “I’m sure.”
His hands slip beneath my shirt—warm, certain—but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t tug. Just lets them rest there against my skin like he’s waiting for permission he technically already has.
My breath catches.
Not because I’m nervous.
But because I’ve never been touched like this.
Like he wants to learn me, not consume.
I curl my fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt, fisting it, anchoring myself. His lips find my neck, slow and reverent, and I swear I feel it in myspine.
“Troy,” I call out his name.
“Yeah?”
His voice is low and hoarse and it takes all my will power not to reach for him like a caged animal.
“You’re really… taking your time.”
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Gotta earn the good stuff, Greer.”
I narrow my eyes. “You think this is your reward?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles along my waist. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
My whole body goes still. Not out of fear—but because I’m afraid if I move, I’ll melt.
His hands ease under my shirt again, this time gliding higher—across my ribs, up my back, fingers splaying wide. I shiver when he touches the clasp of my bra.
“Still sure?” he asks, voice like gravel and silk.
“Still sure.”
“Good.”
