“I imagined this. You. Doing—” My thoughts scatter as his tongue finds that perfect spot again. “Doing that.”
His answering groan vibrates through me, and I’m climbing, climbing, reaching for something just out of grasp?—
“Come for me,” he says. “I want to feel you.”
I shatter. The orgasm hits me like a wave, rolling through my body in pulses of white-hot pleasure. I hear myself cry out, and his hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he works me through it. When I finally come back to myself, gasping and trembling, he’s watching me with an expression that makes my heart flip.
“Beautiful,” he says again. “So fucking beautiful.”
I reach for him, pulling him up my body, and kiss him deeply. I can taste myself on his lips—strange and intimate and unbearably erotic.
“Your turn,” I murmur.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.”
My hands go to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, and he helps me—pushing his jeans down just enough, and then he’s in my hand, hot and hard and huge?—
“Oh.” I look up at him. “That’s...”
“Too much?”
“No.” I wrap my fingers around him, marveling at the weight, the heat. “Just... impressive.”
He laughs, but it turns into a groan as I stroke him. “Careful. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks too.”
“Really?”
“Every night.” His hips rock into my hand. “Every time I close my eyes. You have no idea what you do to me.”
I stroke him again, watching his face and the way his jaw clenches and his breath catches.
“Show me,” I whisper.
He groans and kisses me, and for a while we lose ourselves in each other—hands exploring, mouths meeting, bodies moving together in a rhythm that feels both new and ancient.
When he finally stills my hand, we’re both breathing hard.
“If you keep doing that,” he manages, “this is going to end embarrassingly fast.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Yes.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Because when I finally have you—all of you—I want it to last.”
When. Not if. When.
The certainty in his voice makes something bloom in my chest.
“So this isn’t—” I swallow. “This isn’t just tonight?”
He pulls back enough to look at me, and the tenderness in his expression makes my eyes sting.
“Isadora Solis,” he says quietly. “This was never just anything. Not for me.”
“For me either,” I admit. “I tried to pretend it was. Told myself it was just attraction, just chemistry, just—” I shake my head. “But it’s not. It hasn’t been for a while.”
“How long?”
