His fingers skim the inside of my thigh, and I shuffle my feet apart, hungry, desperate, needy, and so very, very wet.
“Here?” He brushes his knuckle along the length of the crotch seam of my pants.
I’m panting, gasping, and he’s barely touched me, but I have no time to linger on my desperation. I need more.
“Y-yes.”
“You want me to touch your pussy, Eloise?”
Holy moly. How does he make my name sound so dirty?
Fuck.
I don’t drop the F-bomb often, but I don’t think any of the other words I know can come close to this pulsing ache that rages between my legs, to how consumed by hunger I am. I have never in my life been as horny as I am right here in this library.
“Five questions.”
“Huh?”
“Cinco preguntas.Then, I’ll touch you anywhere you want me to.” His smile is teasing now, his eyes sparkling. And I want to rip his grin from his face, or scream, or stamp my feet preferably on his toes, but he presses his rock-hard dick into my thigh with a groan. This must be some kind of wicked foreplay.
I’ll play his game. Five questions.
If he wants the PIN to my bank account, he can take it.
If he wants Mom’s recipe for potato salad, I know it by heart though my hands may be trembling too much to actually write it down.
“Okay.” I arch my back, tilting my hips, but he doesn’t move his hand that’s now on my waist.
He dots kisses along one side of my jaw, while stroking my scars with his thumb. “What’s your favorite color?”
M-m-my what? Color? He can’t be serious, right? Surely, he meant sexual position? Sex toy? Piece of lingerie. Something as dirty.
He doesn’t look up at me, but he must sense my surprise somehow. “I told you, I want to know it all. Every detail.”
“Moss green.” Like Mom’s eyes.
One of his hands still sits weighty on my hip, and I find myself leaning into the rhythmic strokes of his hand on my scars. I’ve spent every second of my life since the accident, since the surgeries that followed, hiding that piece of myself from everyone, making sure it never saw the light of day.
Yet here’s this beautiful man stroking the ugliest part of me, the gnarly reminder of the darkest moments of my life, in the middle of the library, and I relish the contact. I’m leaning into it, drawing comfort from it. I don’t feel ugly, like a freak, or some disgusting weirdo—his soft touch makes me feel treasured, peaceful even.
And I’m really not sure what to think about that. I can’t imagine a life that doesn’t have anxiety around my scars, but I’m daring to think it might be possible someday.
He wedges his knee between my thighs. I don’t know how long I can fight the urge to rub my pussy—aggressively—against his leg.
Four to go. His kisses move down the column of my neck, slowly and with purpose, sending shivers of desire skating across my skin that echo between my legs.
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Potato salad.”
“Hmmm.” He hums against my skin as he drags his tongue lower. When he sucks on the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, I shiver.
Huh. Ares de la Peña seems to be unlocking a long list of firsts for me. I’ve never been sensitive there, or maybe I’ve never been with someone who paid much attention to the fact that my neck might be a fun place to spend some time. It definitely feels like a fun place. Especially when he sucks again at the delicate skin on my neck.
“Interesting.” His word is a purr against my skin before he nips with his teeth. It doesn’t hurt. In fact, it’s a nice counterpoint to the ache that’s searing through my body on repeat.
When he bites a little harder, it’s my turn to purr, though it doesn’t sound nearly as sexy as Ares’s noises. I might get off on those alone.
