I reach between her thighs and she’s already soaked. Four days of wanting and barely any foreplay and she’s the wettest I’ve ever felt her.
“Fuck, Marnie.” I circle her slowly, feeling her shake under my hand.
“I know—please—I can’t?—”
I slide two fingers inside and her back arches completely off the bed, a broken moan tearing from her throat.
“That’s it,” I murmur, working her with steady pressure. “Let me hear you. No one here but us. No hotel walls. No one to be quiet for.”
I use my thumb on her clit while my fingers work inside and she’s climbing so fast it’s almost frightening. Four days of build-up and her body’s ready to snap.
I watch her face—lips parted, eyes squeezed shut, that flush spreading down her neck to her chest. She’s gorgeous like this. Completely undone. Desperate for something only I can give her.
I stop, pulling my hand away completely.
The sound she makes is somewhere between a scream and a sob.
“NO—” She’s staring at me with wild eyes. “Roman, please, I was right there?—”
“I know.” I rest my hand on her hip, grounding but not giving her what she wants. “But you’re not ready yet.”
“How am I not ready? I’m going to combust?—”
“Your body’s ready. Your mind isn’t. You’re still thinking. Still trying to control it. I need you past thinking.”
“I hate you—” Her voice breaks. “I hate you so much right now?—”
“No you don’t.” I kiss her softly, at odds with how desperate we both are. “You trust me. Even when you hate me.”
I watch her breathing slowly settle, watch that desperate edge fade just enough. It’s torture for both of us—I’m so hard my jeans are painful, every nerve ending screaming at me to just give in and take what we both need.
But this isn’t about need. This is about trust. About teaching her body that it can do this. That she can let go completely and it’ll be good.
When her breathing finally evens out, I start moving down her body, and she tenses slightly. “Roman, you don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” Want is an understatement. I’ve been fantasizing about this, about making her fall apart. “Been thinking about this since you made me do those hip flexor stretches.”
She laughs, breathless. “That was months ago.”
“Yeah, well, you were wearing those yoga pants and kneeling between my legs. I’m only human.” I settle between her thighs. “Also, you were very bossy about the stretches. Very professional. Very hot.”
“That’s not—that’s just how PT works?—”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hot.” I press a kiss to her inner thigh, feel her shiver. “You telling me what to do? In that voice? While touching me? Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.”
I put my mouth on her and she gasps, her hands immediately going to my hair.
I work her with my tongue—steady pressure, the rhythm I think she needs based on how she responded on the road trip. She’s shaking already, thighs trembling against my shoulders.
But then something shifts.
Her hands tighten in my hair but not in a good way. More like she’s trying to anchor herself. Her breathing goes from aroused to anxious.
“I don’t think—” Her voice is frustrated.
I pull back slightly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, it’s just—” She won’t look at me. “This is taking too long. You’re probably tired. I can just?—”
