I love that he does.
I swallow. “Don’t stop.”
Something changes in his face. Then his hand slips under the nightdress.
His fingers move over my thigh first, rough skin against soft, making me tremble. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time like he has all night and every right. My breathing turns shallow when he reaches the edge of my underwear.
When he touches me over the fabric, I nearly come off the bed.
He goes still for one second, and I know he feels it.
How wet I am.
Soaking wet.
His eyes lift to mine, and I want to look away, but he won’t let me.
“This is what you were hiding?” he asks.
My face burns hot. “Shut up.”
His mouth curves.
Not a smile. Something worse.
He strokes me again through my underwear, slow and firm, right over the place that makes my thighs shake.
I grab his wrist.
Not to stop him. To survive it.
He knows the difference.
“Your body is honest,” he says.
“I hate you.”
“No.” His fingers press harder, rubbing over my clit through the damp fabric. “You hate that I can make you feel this.”
The pressure is unbearable. My hips move against his hand before I can stop them.
I feel the smile in his silence.
Then he pulls my underwear aside and touches me directly. His fingers slide through the wetness there, spreading it slowly, learning me with awful patience. When he finds my clit, my whole body jerks.
“There,” he says.
I press my hand over my mouth.
He catches my wrist and pins it to the mattress. “No hiding.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can.”
His fingers circle my clit slowly, exactly enough to make me shake and not enough to let me finish. My thighs open wider without permission. He looks down between us, watching his hand touch me, and the sight of his attention makes me even wetter.
I’ve never been this exposed.
