Instinctively, I reach for him, wanting to touch him, needing to make him feel as good as he made me—but his hand closes around my wrist, stopping me with a grip tight enough to make my pulse jump.
My eyes lift to his. All hints of his playful smile dissolve, leaving only a dark, starved expression.
“I can’t,” he whispers, voice rough. “Not right now. If you touch me, I won’t be able to stop.”
I open my mouth, to ask, to beg—I’m not even sure which—but he drags his thumb along my bottom lip, slow enough to make my breath stutter and unravel something deep within me. His hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face up and holding me still. Then he presses his thumb into my mouth.
Only then do I realize—it’s thesamethumb he used to wipe his mouth. My lips close around him and all I taste is myself as he slides it over my tongue.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.“So fucking beautiful.”
He lets his thumb slip from between my lips with a low groan, his gaze lingering on my mouth like he’s already imagining what else he could do to me.
He slowly steps backward toward the door, his eyes locked on me, like he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of seeing the mess he made of me.
This was supposed to be enough, but already my body aches for more—for all of him. And that terrifies me.
All my reservations vanish, replaced by the overwhelming need to pull him back, to beg for more—any way he’ll give it to me.
He lets out a deep chuckle as his hand grips the glass doorknob. “You better move if you still want that shower before dinner. You know how my dad feels about tardiness.”
“Shit,”I whisper as I slip off the dresser on unsteady legs, completely forgetting that I’m barely dressed. But I guess that doesn’t matter now, especially after Wesley just had his face buried between my thighs.
I pause in the doorway to the bathroom, looking back over my shoulder at Wesley. He’s still standing in the same spot with his eyes locked on me.
“What about you?” I ask, flicking my gaze to the hard line straining against his jeans.
He shakes his head with a low, humorless laugh. “Get in the shower, Princess.”
Then he slips out of my room, closing the door with a softclickand leaving me standing half-naked and alone.
Aftermyshower,Itwist my damp waves into a half-up style, shimmy into my jeans, and tug on a cropped T-shirt. I lean toward the mirror and swipe on a little mascara and tinted lip balm—just enough effort for Lucky’s later. Enough to pretend I’m fine. The dim lighting there might be forgiving, but it’s not a magic wand.
I keep telling myself to look casual. Normal.
Nothing about me feels normal now.
By the time I sit down at dinner, my skin is already buzzing, like there’s electricity trapped under my ribs. Every time Wesleylooks at me, itburns—like he’s branding me all over, marking me forever so I won’t forget—so Ican’tforget.
Not that I want to.
But it’s impossible to act casual when it’s all I can think about. It feels like everyone at this tableknowshe slipped into my room and dropped to his knees to worship me.
No strings. No feelings. Just sex.
This is so much harder than I expected. I never felt anything like this with Lane—not even close.
Heat curls low in my stomach at the memory of Wesley’s mouth, his hands, the way he wanted me—obvious and hungry. I shift in my seat, pressing my thighs together under the table, and try to breathe normally.
Why didn’t he want me to do anything for him?
Emmett nudges my knee with his, barely a brush, but enough to bring me back down to reality.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
My gaze flicks straight to Wesley. He’s in his usual seat at the opposite side of the table, in an increasingly heated argument with Heath about Outlaw, neither of them even glancing in our direction.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, fixing my eyes back onto my plate. “Sorry. I spaced out for a second.”
