“You’re not so bad yourself,” I murmur, trying to keep my tone light. Because this is intense, and I’m not quite sure what to do with the emotions.
His hand cups my breast. His thumb drags across the peak, and the sensation shoots straight down between my thighs. I arch into his palm. He does it again—watching my face, reading my reaction the way he reads everything—and when I bite my lip and squirm, his pupils blow wide.
“Come here,” he says.
I move into him. Mouth to mouth. The kiss is different now; deeper, urgent, his tongue stroking mine while his hands learn the shape of my waist, my ribs, the curve of my hips. I press against him and feel his cock hard against my stomach through his pants, and the heat of it makes me clench.
His mouth drops to my neck. The hollow below my ear—where he breathed me in earlier—and his lips drag down the tendon to my shoulder. His teeth graze the skin, and I feel the wolf in it. The edge of something held back. But his hands are careful on my waist, and when I press closer, he lets me set the pace.
My hand moves down his chest. Across the flat planes of his stomach. Lower. I trace the line of muscle above his waistband. His belly tightens. When I slide my hand lower and palm him through the fabric, he jerks, a full-body snap, his hips pushing into my grip, a rough sound punching out of him.
I still my hand. Watch.
His eyes are squeezed shut. His jaw is locked. But his hips are pressing forward, chasing the pressure, and the sound he made wasn’t pain.
I squeeze gently. His head drops back.
“Fuck.” The word is guttural, wrenched from him. His hands grip my waist hard enough that I’ll have marks.
I undo the front of his pants, taking my time with it…the button, the zip, my knuckles dragging against him through the fabric. He’s panting by the time I push the waistband down and wrap my hand around his shaft.
He’s thick. Hard. Hot against my palm. When I stroke him—slow, root to tip—his whole body shudders. His hands leave my waist and brace against the cave floor, fingers digging into the tarp.
“Look at me,” I say.
He opens his eyes. The blue is burning. His chest is heaving. He looks like a man on the edge of something he doesn’t know how to fall into, and the vulnerability of it hits me harder than the hunger.
I stroke him again. Slower. My thumb sweeps across the silky head, and his hips jerk off the ground. The sound he makes is almost broken.
“Too much?” I ask.
“No.” His voice is torn. “Just— It’s been— I don’t—”
He breaks off, jaw tight, eyes bright and fierce with the effort of staying present. I understand enough. Years of hands on him,and none of them like this. Years of touch meaning restraint, pain, sedation, control.
Now my hand is around him, my mouth is on his skin, and pleasure is hitting a body trained to brace for harm.
I lean down and kiss his chest, then his stomach, then the ridge of muscle along his hip. He trembles under my mouth, a deep shudder that moves through him in waves, and his hand comes into my hair.
He doesn’t push.
His fingers curl against my scalp and stay there, holding on while he lets me choose the pace.
I rise back up and kiss his mouth. His hands find my remaining clothes, less steady now, tugging at fabric, his knuckles bumping my hip bone, his breath coming short against my lips as he works the last barrier down my legs. I help him, kicking the cloth free, and then there is nothing between us. Bare skin against bare skin.
The shock of it takes the air from both of us.
“God, you feel good,” I exhale.
He is all heat and hard muscle against me, chest to breast, stomach to stomach, his cock pressed between us as I hook my leg over his hip. His hand closes on my thigh, fingers digging into the muscle, and pulls me tighter.
His mouth finds my throat. My collarbone. Lower. His lips close over my nipple, and my back arches hard, a moan tearing out of me. He stays there, tongue working, teeth grazing as his hand slides between my thighs. His fingers find my clit, and my hips buck.
“Rafael!” I gasp.
He stills. Reads me. Then he does it again, circling, pressing, adjusting the pressure when my breathing changes. The precision is devastating. He pays complete attention, with afocus that leaves no room for error. When I whimper and press into his hand, he gives me more. When I pull back, he eases.
“There,” I manage. “Right there! Don’t stop—”
