He cups me through the fabric, his palm pressing just enough to make my legs weaken around him.
Heat floods me, pooling low and deep, an ache that only he can satisfy.
His lips drag up to mine. “Tell me something, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “This.” His palm presses harder, moving in slow, agonizing circles. “This doesn’t feel like a casual, just-catching-up kind of situation.”
I bite my lip, nails digging into his shoulders. “Shut up,” I pant, but it sounds more like a moan than an actual objection.
Alder laughs, the sound so low, so wicked, I feel it in my body.
“Oh, that independent streak is cute.” His fingers slip beneath my panties, skin against skin, finding the wetness that’s already waiting for him.
He strokes once, slow and devastating, his other hand gripping my thigh, keeping me right where he wants me.
My head falls back against the dock, a sharp gasp breaking free.
“This doesn’t mean we’re back together,” I manage,my voice wrecked, breathless.
“No?” Alder makes a thoughtful hum, his fingers still stroking, unhurried, cruel. “You mean to tell me”—another stroke, firmer this time, like he’s testing me, taunting me, coaxing me closer to the edge—“you let me get you like this, let me touch you like this, but we’re just…what? Two exes catching up?”
He strokes again, and my hips jerk into his hand.
“Alder,” I gasp, nails scraping down his back, desperate.
“I love this little act you’re putting on, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His fingers move faster, working me open, owning me. “Like you don’t already know how this is gonna end.”
I choke on a moan, my thighs shaking, my hands pulling him closer, but it’s not enough. I need more. I need all of him.
The ache is excruciating, unbearable. I press closer, hips tilting, chasing him—chasing what I know only he can give me.
“Please,” I cry.
I don’t care if it’s desperate. Iamdesperate. In so many ways.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I won’t give you what you want, Gemma.”
His fingers slow. Then he pulls back, removing his hand completely, leaving me aching, empty, furious.
A broken, frustrated noise escapes me, but he just leans in, brushing his lips against my ear, his voice so dark and thick with promise, I swear I can taste it.
“Not until you give me what I want.”
I shudder, my nails digging into his shoulders,because I already know what he wants.
It’s not just my body. It’s everything. My admission. My surrender.
He wants me to come back. To say it. To beg.
“You need me, Gemma,” he murmurs, his thumb skimming my bottom lip. “I see it. I feel it.” His hand trails down my throat, lower, lower, stopping just above my breasts. “You’re shaking for me. So wet for me.”
I suck in a breath, my legs quivering from how badly I need him inside me.
He leans in, his mouth just barely grazing mine. “Say it.”
I shouldn’t say it. I shouldn’t mean it. But, God, I do.
“I need you, Alder.” My voice is wrecked, raw, ruined, my body shaking. “Save me. Please.”
His growl is pure sin, and with a sudden, sharp tug, he yanks my panties to the side. The fabric rips, the sound loud in the quiet night, as he makes damn sure there’s nothing left between us.
