My breath catches. My whole body goes taut with waiting.
"Don't stop," I breathe.
He doesn't.
His palm curves over me, cupping me through the thin fabric of my bra, and the contact drags a moan from somewhere deep in my chest. His thumb traces a slow circle, finding the peak through the lace, and the sensation shoots through me like lightning. I arch into his touch, pressing myself more firmly into his hand, wanting more pressure, more friction, more of him.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my ear. "Every little sound you make. Every way your body moves. I want to learn all of it."
His thumb continues its lazy circles, and I can feel myself growingdesperate beneath his touch. The lace of my bra creates friction against the sensitive peak, amplifying every movement of his fingers. He rolls the hardened nub between his thumb and forefinger, a gentle pressure that makes my hips jerk against him involuntarily.
"That's it," he breathes. "Show me what you like."
I'm beyond words. Can only clutch at his shoulders as his hand works me through the fabric, as the heat builds low in my belly, spreading outward with every stroke of his fingers.
But it's still not enough.
"Please." I don't recognize my own voice. Desperate. Needy. "Please, Maximus."
"Please, what?" His lips brush my ear, his breath cool against my skin. "Tell me exactly what you want. I need to hear you say it."
"Touch me." The words come out ragged, torn from somewhere I didn't know existed. "Lower. I need you to touch me lower."
He goes still. For one agonizing moment, I think he's going to pull back, going to be noble and restrained, going to make me wait.
Then his hand begins its descent.
Slowly. So slowly it makes me want to scream. His fingers trail down over my ribs, my stomach, tracing the waistband of my leggings like he's memorizing the boundary. His touch is feather-light, teasing, and I squirm against him, trying to guide his hand where I need it.
"Patience," he murmurs, and there's a dark amusement in his voice that makes me shiver. "I've waited days for this. I intend to savor it."
"I can't wait." The confession escapes before I can stop it. "I've been thinking about this. About you. Every night alone in my room, I've been thinking about your hands."
His fingers pause at my waistband. I feel the tremor that runs through him at my words.
"Tell me." His voice has dropped to something rough and urgent. "Tell me what you thought about."
"Your fingers." I'm past the point of embarrassment, past caring how desperate I sound. "I thought about your fingers inside me. Thought about what it would feel like to have you touch me. To make me come."
He makes a sound that's almost a growl, and his hand slips beneath the fabric of my leggings.
The first brush of his fingers over my underwear makes me gasp. Even through the thin barrier, I can feel the cool pressure of him, the deliberate way he traces the shape of me. He explores slowly, mapping the territory, learning what makes me twitch and shudder.
"You're soaked," he breathes against my neck, and the rawness in his voice makes me clench. "I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me."
I can only nod, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he continues his exploration. His fingers press more firmly, finding the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs through the fabric, and my whole body jerks.
"There," I gasp. "Right there."
He circles the spot slowly, watching my face, cataloging every reaction. The pressure is perfect and not enough all at once. I need more. Need him closer.
"Please," I whisper. "I need to feel you. Really feel you."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. The storm gray has darkened to something closer to midnight, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes." The word comes out steady. Certain. "I want your fingers inside me. I want to feel you."
