“Youhave,” he crowed. “You’ve read about pegging and consentacles and—”
As she’d done once before, she plastered her hand over his mouth, and she really should have remembered his previous response. This go-round, he licked her palm more slowly, swirling his tongue along the way. An enticement, not the trick of a naughty friend.
She didn’t move her hand.
Her eyelashes fluttered against his neck, and her thighs shifted. Parted, if only an inch.
She stretched a little. Resettled herself tighter against him with a low hum. Her nipples suddenly made themselves evident against his chest.
Well, then.
He twisted his neck, scraping his beard against her fingers, butting her hand like a cat in need of petting. In a halting movement, she stroked his jaw. His cheek. Smoothed her thumb over his eyebrows.
Her breathing had become more rapid. His too.
No part of her felt cold anymore, and fuck knew he was on fire.
When she slowly traced his lips with her forefinger, he opened his mouth and took it inside. Sucked. Held the pad of her finger carefully between his teeth.
She—
Shit. Shemoaned.
He trembled. Then nudged his knee lightly, so lightly, against the seam of her legs. It was the lower-body equivalent of his open arms. Not a demand, but an invitation.
Then she was straddling his thigh, her fingers digging deliciously into his back, the heat of her sex scorching through her thin leggings, and thesoundshe made as she pressed against him, squirming, set him alight. He slid his hands down her back slowly, waiting for her to protest. Waiting for her to stop him.
She didn’t, so he cupped her generous, unbelievably plush ass in his hands and hitched her tighter onto his leg. Harder against the muscles there, to give her pressure where she needed it. She inhaled sharply and arched her back in response, and yes, yes, he wanted her to rub against him. He wanted her tousehim for her pleasure.
It was all delirious heat and joy, all friction and panting.
Until he angled himself in a way he hadn’t intended, trying to get closer, as close as he could, and his hard cock—he was thirty-nine fucking years old, so what the fuck? Why had his normal refractory time failed him now?—pressed against her belly.
She gasped again, and her hips stilled. So did her hands.
Disentangling himself from her felt like severing a limb, but he did it anyway. He’d vowed to behave, vowed not to scare her, and like the asshole he was, he’d broken his promises.
“I’m sorry.” The words were too loud, too abrupt, but he couldn’t seem to control his breathing or his voice or much of anything right now. “I’m sorry, Lauren.”
Her bedside lamp was still aglow, and he could clearly see her gorgeous eyes. Her beloved, fascinating face. Her expression, twisted with—
Was thathurt?
“Why are you sorry, Alex?” Her chin trembled, and she clenched that soft jaw tight. “Are you sorry because it’s me in this bed with you, and not someone else?”
His mouth literally dropped open.
“What—” He gave his head a shake against the too-hard pillow, befuddled and disbelieving. “What the hell doesthatmean?”
Her quivering chin tipped high, and she blinked hard. “Here we are, living out your favorite fics. One bed. Cuddling for warmth. And maybe you got caught up in things and forgot exactly who was in your—”
He laughed. He laughed loudly and uncontrollably, and by the time he calmed himself, Lauren was huddled as far away from him as possible in their bed. Which wasn’t far, because she wasn’t a small woman, and the bed wasn’t particularly large.
“I need to tell Marcus about this,” he said, only to realize he’d made things worse, because her already-pained face collapsed in on itself in absolute humiliation and horror. “No, Wren,no. Whatever you’re thinking,no.”
Okay. He was doing this.
No more hesitance. No more weighing words and consequences. He should have known better. He wasn’t made for restraint.
