He kissed me back immediately, no hesitation this time, his hands coming up to my waist and pulling me closer, and I felt him hard against me and made a sound into his mouth that I'd never made before in my life.
His hands moved up my back, warm and certain, and I arched into them because I wanted more, wanted all of it, wanted everything the books had described and everything more that they hadn't.
"Forrest," I breathed against his mouth.
"I've got you." His lips moved to my jaw, my throat, and I tipped my head back and felt his teeth graze my pulse point and gasped. His hands came up to cup my breasts and I made a sound that embarrassed me…and then decided not to be embarrassed because his breath had gone ragged and his grip had tightened and I could feelexactlywhat I was doing to him.
That was new.
Knowing I was doing something to him. That this was mutual. That the wanting went both ways.
I rocked my hips, just slightly, and he made a low rough sound against my neck. The rough fabric of his boxers scraped against my clit, making me moan.
"Easy," he said.
"I don't want easy," I said.
He pulled back to look at me. Even in the dark I could see his expression—undone, wanting, fighting to hold onto something.
“How do you want it, Willa?” he asked.
I swallowed hard. “I want to know how much you want me.”
His expression shifted.
His lips curved.
Then he was holding me tight, and I was suddenly on my back—the breath wooshing out of me in a surprised laugh. He followed me down, already moving, his mouth on my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my breast—taking his time in a way that made me want to grab his hair and pull, except I didn’t want him to stop, didn’t want to rush a single second of this. His stubble dragged against my skin and I erupted in goosebumps, shivering and sighing.
His mouth closed over my nipple and I gasped, my back arching off the bed.
“More—” I begged. “Please.”
“Gonna be so good for you,” he murmured. Moved to the other breast, sucked hard…gave it some teeth. “Gonna be so fucking good for you, beautiful.”
He moved lower. My stomach. The swell of my hip. The soft skin under my belly button.
I realized where he was going and my whole body went tight.
He paused long enough for me to realize he was hesitating, and I breathed out a sharp, needy, “Yes.”
He pressed a kiss to the inside of my thigh.
I felt his breath first, warm, and then his mouth. I moaned loudly, clamping a hand down over my mouth…but I felt him reach up and gently take it away.
“I wanna hear you,” he breathed against my core. “Fuck, Ineedto hear you.”
So I let him.
The next sound I made was loud enough that I felt my face go hot even as I made it, and he made a low approving sound against me that undid what was left of my composure entirely.
Nothing had prepared me for this.
Not one single book.
They'd described it—God, had they described it, I'd read those scenes until the pages were soft—but they hadn't gotten at the specific reality of it, the way it built so slow and then wasn't slow at all, the way his hands held my hips like I was something worth holding onto, the way he paid attention like he was learning something he intended to remember.
The heroes in my books were skilled. Confident. They always knew exactly what to do.
