I bury my face against her neck, scenting her again, letting her pleasure wash over me like a drug. Her heat may have passed, but the bond tug is still there, an echo that claws at me.
“You’re going to kill me,” I mutter against her skin, my pace quickening, desperate despite every warning bell in my head.
And when she clamps down around my fingers with a muffled cry, shuddering against me, I realize I’ve already lost.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wren
The clarity comessharp and cold the second I come down, like a slap of reality after being carried away on a tide. My whole body jerks as the last wave rolls through me, and I collapse against Simon’s chest, breath ragged, my thighs trembling.
“Fuck,” I whisper, the word raw, half curse, half prayer.
He doesn’t let go. His mouth is hot at my throat, licking, kissing, dragging shivers up my spine. His stubble scratches lightly against my skin, making me twitch, oversensitive. His hand, the one that just wrung me out, slides up, pressing his slick fingers against my lips.
I freeze, but then he nudges gently. “Open.”
And I do. I part my lips and suck his fingers into my mouth. The salt-slick taste of myself coats my tongue, humiliating and heady all at once.
He watches me with those dark, sharp eyes, like he’s dissecting every flick of my tongue, every hollow of my cheeks as I draw on him.
“Better?” he asks softly. His voice is rough velvet, a sound that makes me weak in places I shouldn’t be weak.
I nod, unable to meet his eyes—my pulse still races.
Slowly, he pulls his fingers free, wet and shining, then bends down to adjust my panties back into place, tucking me in like he’s sealing away the evidence of what just happened. His carefulness makes it worse somehow, more intimate than if he’d just left me bare.
“I’ll call you as soon as your results are in,” he says, adjusting his glasses like the last two minutes didn’t happen. His voice is steady, clinical.
I nod again, my throat tight.
“I’ll handle your bill,” he adds. “Don’t worry about it.”
That makes my head snap up. “Simon?—”
He cuts me off with the slightest shake of his head, no room for argument. I swallow whatever protest was forming.
“Thank you,” I manage, and it comes out quiet, uneven.
My legs are shaky when I slide off the exam table. I steady myself with a hand on the edge.
And then he does something that makes my chest stutter. He steps close again, closer than he should, and bends down to kiss me. This time, it isn’t desperate or hungry. It’s soft. Too soft.
His lips linger against mine, warm, achingly gentle, and I can feel just how hard he is pressed against his slacks, rigid and insistent. My breath hitches, but he doesn’t push.
“You can come here whenever you need help,” he murmurs. “Any kind of help.”
The implication slices right through me. My body betrays me by heating again, my thighs clenching, but I nod like I understand.
“Is there anything else you would like us to discuss before you leave?” he asks, his smile soft and reassuring.
“I’m good,” I say.
He watches my movements, and I don’t miss the way his eyes linger on my lips. My skin grows hot.
If I stay here one more minute, I might beg him for a second round on his fingers.
“I think I should go.” I can barely recognize my own voice.
