He feels the tremor. Smiles against my mouth. Wicked. Knowing. Dangerous.
“You like my hands on you,” he murmurs.
I absolutely do.
And I absolutely cannot say that.
Which he seems to interpret perfectly.
He steps forward, guiding me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed. “Up,” he says again, darker this time.
I obey without thinking. The second I’m on the bed, his hands are all over me, trailing up my thighs, squeezing, guiding my knees apart so he can step between them.
He leans in, his palms sliding up the outside of my legs, slow and hungry, like he’s relearning my body inch by inch.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, eyes on my lips, hands stroking higher, higher. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
I grip his shoulders hard. “I…”
He cuts me off with a kiss. His hands roam my hips, my sides, up my back, pulling me closer until I can feel the firm lines of his body pressed against every inch of mine.
“Tell me you feel this, too,” he murmurs against my jaw, his hands sliding down again, gripping my thighs, dragging me closer to the edge of the bed. “Tell me I’m not imagining this.”
I can’t speak. I’m too busy trying not to combust.
He takes my silence as the truth it is.
“Yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing my neck. “That’s what I thought.”
His hands run up my torso again, slower this time, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the edge of my bra. Not touching where he can’t, but close enough that I swear he can feel my heartbeat under his palms.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he growls softly. “Do you know that?”
His mouth trails down my neck, lips tracing the line of my pulse. I arch involuntarily. His hands slide to my lower back, pulling me into him, making a quiet, needy sound escape my throat.
He groans, deep and guttural. He kisses my collarbone, then along my shoulder, one hand sliding beneath the loose neckline of my dress, his palm warm against my bare skin.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, shaky, undone.
“Mmm,” he answers, mouth at my throat. “More.”
He presses me down on the bed, bracing himself with one hand while the other brushes over my skin. Up my thigh, gripping, squeezing, guiding. Up my hip, over my waist, slipping beneath the hem of my dress again like he can’t stay away from my skin.
He touches me everywhere butthere, and it’s maddening. Intoxicating. Kinkier than if he actually did.
Every place his hand moves makes me feel like I’m about to break. His mouth finds mine again, hotter than before, his hands roaming my body like he can’t choose a single place to stay.
“Do you want me?” he rasps, kissing me like the words are physically painful to say.
I nod and tug him closer. His eyes darken, dangerous, grateful, undone.
“Good,” he whispers.
His hands slide up the backs of my thighs, lifting me slightly, positioning me exactly where he wants me on the bed. His body presses between my legs, his breath hot and ragged, his hands gripping my hips with intent that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
He kisses me again—deep, wild, claiming—and just as his fingers hook under the hem of my dress, just as my hands slide under his shirt to pull him closer, just as everything tips fromheated to inevitable, the rest dissolves into shadows, breath, tangled limbs, and the soft, desperate sound of desire on his lips.
I splay my palms wide, gripping onto the sheets as my dress slips off my shoulders and I shimmy out of it. Before I can even catch my breath, his fingers dive into my underwear and fuck me deep. A guttural scream rises within me and explodes as he massages and explores all of me.
