It’s bliss.
It’severything.
I don’t want him to let go. In fact, I want more, and I want it now. I’m even willing to risk rejection to see how far I can push him.
After all, I agreed to “just sleep” last night. I didn’t make any promises about this morning.
With a slight tilt of my hips, I press my ass against his groin, giving his hard length an inviting graze.
His breath hitches. His hold on my hip tightens.
We’re on a precipice, the stifling attraction between us making it hard to breathe.
Brazenly, my voice crackling from sleep, I whisper, “Take what you want, Alaric.”
Silently I add,please let what you want be me.
He flexes his fingers along my side, slipping them beneath the waistband of my pajamas. The point of contact between each of his fingertips and the bare skin stretched over my hip is an electric current of confirmation.
He wants this.
We both do.
I hold my breath again, desperate to see what he’ll do next.
The anxious, self-conscious part of my brain steels itself for disappointment. Last night he made me promise we would just sleep, so there is a good chance he’ll say no. And I need to honor his boundary. I need to keep it together if he rejects me outright or feeds me the same tired lines we often exchange.
Rather than retreat, his fingers dip lower, caressing my skin, silently confirming, I think, that he’s as eager to do more than “just sleep” as I am.
Hoping like hell I don’t scare him off, I open my legs, offering better access, then quickly grasp his wrist. When he doesn’t pull back, I trace my fingernails down his knuckles, relishing the sinewy, strong, masculine muscles of his hand.
Heart rate hammering like the wings of a hummingbird, I move our hands down my body, inch by painstakingly inch, gliding him toward my core.
Neither of us speaks.
But then he freezes.
Worry lances through me, second thoughts bombarding me. How far should I push? How much am I willing to risk?
As if he can sense the war raging in my mind, he leans closer and whispers in my ear. “Don’t overthink it. As long as you’re sure?—”
“So sure,” I rush to reply.
“Are you going to help me?” he teases, dipping lower to explore. The tips of his fingers caress my core through the thin fabric of my panties, the featherlight touch practically electrocuting me with pleasure.
These fucking hands. I’ve wanted them on me for so long. I can hardly believe this is really happening.
When he methodically swirls the tip of one finger around my entrance, creating delicious friction with the fabric of my underwear, my hips buck of their own volition. The spark of indulgence has me tightening my grip on his hand.
“I get the sense you don’t need any help.” Rolling my hips, I chase his touch, eager for him to do that again.
He smiles against my neck. “I want to learn exactly what you like and how you like it, Evangeline. Teach me.”
Teach him how I like to get off?
With pleasure.
Literally.
