“What,” I say.
“Off.”
“What?”
“All of it. Off.”
I pull my shirt over my head. Drop my jeans. Bra. Underwear. I’m naked on his couch in his living room with the Florida night coming through the window and a man who has just had his entire vocabulary destroyed in front of me looking at me like he plans to even the score.
He kneels in front of me.
Both knees on the floor. Hands on my thighs. Looks up.
“Look at me.”
I look.
“Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“Stay with me,” he says again. Quieter. Like he means it differently the second time.
“I’m here, Jax.”
He spreads my thighs.
Kisses my hip first. Then the inside of my knee. Works his way up — slow, deliberate, the man who has never been in a hurrywith me taking his time on purpose — and my hands fist in the couch cushion because I don’t know what else to do with them.
He pauses with his mouth two inches from where I want him.
Looks up at me.
“Tell me,” he says.
“Tell you what.”
“Tell me you’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“Say it.”
“I’m here, Jax.”
He gets his mouth on me.
I make a sound I have never made for him before.
He works me — slow first, the flat of his tongue, the press of his mouth, finding the rhythm my body wants and giving it back to me on his own time. One hand on my hip holding me down. The other sliding up, splaying across my stomach, holding me to him.
“Jax —”
“Mhm.”
“That’s — fuck —”
He hums against me and the vibration goes through me like a current.
