I swallow.
“I want you to touch me.”
“Where?”
I stare at him.
His expression does not change.
Heat floods my face.
“Between my legs.”
His eyes darken.
“Good.”
His fingers slide beneath the shirt.
The first touch makes me gasp.
I am already wet, and the rough sound that leaves him sends another rush of heat through me.
“Kaia.”
“Your fault.”
His thumb circles my clit.
My hips jerk toward his hand.
He does it again, slower this time.
I grip the edge of the counter.
“Zain.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Not enough?”
I glare at him.
His mouth almost curves.
“Not nearly enough.”
He increases the pressure.
Pleasure spreads quickly, sharpened by the soreness underneath it. I am aware of everything at once: the cold counter beneath my thighs, the warm kitchen, his shirt gathered around my hips, and Zain standing between my open legs as if the sight of me there is testing the limits of his control.
His finger slides lower, and I tense before I can hide it.
He stills immediately.
“Kaia.”
