"We go slow," he said. "And you tell me if you want to stop. Any second. Any reason."
"Okay."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
I reached for the hem of his shirt. Lifted it. He raised his arms and let me pull it over his head and —
Oh.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Muscles carved by years of being thrown and getting back up, not built in a gym but earned — every ridge, every line written by something real. Scars were scattered across his ribs and one long one curving over his hip, and I wanted to trace every single one with mymouth. His skin was warm and golden, and when I put my palm flat against his chest, I felt his heart pounding against my hand, hard and fast, and the fact that I did that to him — that this man who looked likethatwas shaking under my touch — made my head swim.
I spread my fingers. Let my hand slide down slowly over the ridges of his stomach and watched the muscles clench under my palm. Watched his jaw tighten. Watched his breath stop. My eyes followed the V of muscle that cut low beneath his waistband, and my mouth went dry.
He was careful. He was devastating. He paid attention to every breath, every shiver, every sound like he'd been studying the language of my body and intended to become fluent. When I reached for him — to give back, to reciprocate, to do the thing I'd been trained to believe was required — he caught my hands. Brought them to his mouth. Kissed my knuckles.
"No," he said. Gentle. Firm. "This one's yours. Just yours."
"But you —"
"Callie." He pressed his lips to my palm. "Let me."
So I let him.
He reached for my belt, fingers skimming my stomach as he went. My breath came out shaky and fast. Every nerve ending in my body attuned to his next move. He pulled it through the loops slowly, thoughtfully. The way he’d done everything else. His eyes held mine as it hit the floor with a thud.
And then he sank to his knees.
I wasn’t sure how I was still standing with a man as beautiful as Clay Blackwood kneeling in front of me, undressing me with a kind of reverence that could only be considered devotion.
My pants hit the floor next, and then his hands curled in the waistband of my panties. “Are you sure?” The words scraped out of him, raw and desperate.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes,” I repeated, stronger. “Please, Clay. Touch me.”
“Fuck,” he rasped and dragged my panties to the floor. “Take your shirt off. Let me see you.”
I was panting by the time I was completely undressed. Shaking under his stare. He sank back onto his haunches, just looking. “Well?” I finally asked.
“Well —” he swallowed hard. Then his eyes met mine. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Callie Monroe.”
And I felt it. I felt it with every word, every look, every kind gesture he’d given these last few weeks I’d known him.
I sucked in a slow breath when his lips landed on my thigh. His hands slid up the back of my calves, holding me to him while he trailed open-mouthed kisses higher and higher. I sank a hand in his hair, fisting it at the root when his head settled between my legs.
“Clay,” I breathed, swaying as he tasted me. My eyes fluttered shut. My chest heaved. He was so gentle, but nothing about the sound that left him was gentle. It was raw, hungry — one of my new favorite sounds.
His grip on my legs tightened before he grabbed one and threw it over his shoulder, opening me up to him more.
“Oh God,” I cried out when he sucked on my clit.
He looked up at me then, lips glistening, eyes wild. “You gotta stay quiet for me, baby. Can you do that?”
I nodded quickly, my head swimming. I reached for him, pulling him to his feet as I fell back onto my bed. “More,” I demanded, voice hoarse. “I need more.”
Clay settled on top of me, his skin warm and soft against mine. His weight heavy and perfect on top of me. I kissed him hard, frantic. I reached between us for his jeans, but he grabbed my hand before I could pop the button. “Not tonight,” he said, breathing hard.
My eyes met his. “You don’t want me?”
