AllFreeNovel
Share Us
And I’ll keep dying inside with every touch. Works for me.
Freed from the pressure to get under my clothes, Lane relaxes into her study of me. I’m like a creature in a lab, pinned in place for her observations as she strokes along my upper arms, my elbows, my forearms.
When she crosses from rolled shirtsleeves to bare arms, Lane sucks in a sharp breath. She’s not the only one, and when her eyes dart to mine, electricity arcs between us.
Lightning strobes outside, forking through the night sky.
Meanwhile, those small hands are lighting up my nerve endings like a switchboard.
Pressing her lips together, Lane tugs one of my hands into her lap, and I fight fiercely to ignore the brush of bare thigh against the backs of my knuckles. She rubs both thumbs along the grooves of my palm; measures my wrist with her fingers; squeezes my knuckle joints one by one.
“Men’s hands are so funny.”
“Oh?”
Lane turns my wrist this way and that, then presses our palms together and measures our hands side by side. Mine is much larger, and my fingers curl over her fingertips, the move oddly possessive.
“They’re more… sort of… squared off.”
Huh. “I suppose they are.”
“No wonder you can lift more stuff.”
My mouth twitches. “No wonder.”
“The sports guys always act like they’re such gods for catching a ball or whatever, but then they’re wandering around with hands like dinner plates.” Lane shifts on the mattress edge, her eyes sparkling when I laugh. “You know what’sactuallymore impressive for men, with hands like these? Detail work.”
Couldn’t agree more.
And there is somedetail workI’d dearly love to carry out on Lane Rhodes.
Want to slide my hands under that baggy t-shirt and find the hard beads of her nipples. Want to grip the sides of her body and feel the buried ridges of her ribs. Want to coax those thighs apart and delve beneath those shorts, and show this girl how the tiniest brush of a fingertip, the smallest touch, can make her whole body quiver with sensation.
Instead I sit statue-still as Lane stands and steps closer between my legs. Even standing, she’s barely taller than me, with the flyaway strands of her blonde hair lit up gold by the lamplight. My head tips back so I can watch my student, chest drumming, and she slides off my glasses and places them gently on the desk.
Lane grips my shoulders. She squeezes my collarbone, like she’s testing that I’m structurally sound—then she slings one leg then another over my hips, settling her perfect ass in my lap.
Lane gusts out a pleased sigh, her arms winding around my neck.
Oh, Christ.
I crush her closer.
Seven
Lane
Oh yeah, here we go. I’ve found Ambrose Brent’s secret button: all I need to do is sit in his lap, and his maddening restraint flies out the window. As soon as my weight settles on him, Ambrose grunts and wraps me in his strong arms, squeezing me against the planes of his chest. He goes from a stern statue to burying his face in my hair, breathing deep like he wants to draw me into his lungs, and I love it, I love it, I love it.
Part of me feared that all this time, Ambrose was humoring me. Going along with my special ‘lessons’ out of pity or something, but not really into it himself. I tortured myself with that idea—nearly gave up a dozen times already tonight—but I’m so glad I pushed him one last time.
Now I know better. Now I’msuremy tutor wants me too, because he’s gripping my hips and rolling our bodies together. He’s kissing down my throat, his hot breath misting my skin.
“Lane.” His low voice reverberates against my skin as he mouths my neck, my jaw, my earlobe. “Christ. Lane. You feel… I could just…”
Whatever Ambrose couldjust, I sure wish he would. Wish he’d throw all caution to the wind outside. Wish he’d rip my clothes off, toss me down onto that mattress, and have his wicked way.
My fingers are clumsy, but I flick his shirt buttons open one by one. When my hands find bare chest, smoothing over his warm bulk, Ambrose’s groan vibrates against my palm.
