Page 89 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

“But I think I do want to,” I said quietly. “With you, I mean. The wanting part is definitely there.”

And it was. It was there. The way my pulse quickened when Kit’s hands found my skin, the way that fiery heat flooded my body when he kissed me, the way I found myself thinking about his mouth and his hands and what it might feel like to have more of them in different places. It was a pull I’d never felt before, never this intensely.

“The anxiety you felt,” Kit said, his thumb tracing small circles on my thigh. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be. Sex should feel good. Safe. Not like a performance review.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “That’s… actually exactly what it felt like.”

“When you’re with the right person, when you trust them…” Kit paused, choosing his words carefully. “You don’t have to worry about doing everything perfectly. You don’t have to worry about anything, really.”

Something in his voice made me look up, meet his eyes properly.

“I mean it, Felix. If or when you want to try anything, you won’t have to do anything but enjoy yourself.” His hand moved higher on my thigh, fingers spreading warm against the denim. “Believe me, taking care of you will be more than enough for me.”

The intensity in his voice, the way he was looking at me like I was something he wanted so badly, made my breath catch.

“Okay,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was agreeing to. The whole conversation felt surreal.

“What do you want right now?” Kit asked, voice low.

I stared at him, my mind going completely blank. The honest answer was that I had absolutely no idea. My body seemed to know something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet—this restless energy thrumming under my skin, the way I couldn’t stop looking at his mouth, the urge to touch him that felt almost magnetic.

Without really thinking about it, I set my mug on the coffee table with a soft clink.

Then I climbed back onto his lap.

Kit’s hands immediately found my hips, but his grip stayed light, fingers barely pressing through the denim of my jeans. Like he was giving me space to change my mind at any second.

I leaned down to kiss him. Kit’s mouth opened under mine, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that now felt natural. He shifted beneath me, sinking sideways until he was lying flat against the sofa cushions. I stretched out alongside him, half draped across his chest, one leg tangled between his.

The kiss deepened, and I found myself pressing closer, chasing that warmth and the way Kit’s breathing had gone ragged beneath me. His hands roamed my back, fingers tracing the line of my shoulder blades. Pure bliss tingled through me. My cock twitched as it hardened, pressing against him through my jeans, and my face burned with embarrassment and want in equal measure. For a heartbeat, I froze.

But then Kit’s hand found the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and he murmured something encouraging against my mouth. The sound went straight through me, and without really meaning to, I rocked forward slightly, pressing against him.

The friction sent a jolt of pleasure through me that made my breath catch. Kit’s response was immediate—a low rumble that vibrated through my chest where it pressed against his.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Whatever feels good.”

I moved again, more deliberately this time, grinding down against the hard line of him through our jeans. The sensation was overwhelming—too much and not nearly enough all at once. My movements became more insistent, seeking that perfect pressure, that heat that made sparks shoot up my spine, that made my whole body sing with need.

Kit’s hands stayed gentle on my back, never gripping too tightly, never controlling my movements. Just steadying me, encouraging me, letting me set the pace.

I buried my face against his neck, breathing hard, the scratch of his beard against my skin adding another layer to the sensory overload. Without thinking, I pressed my nose against his throat, breathing him in. My brain tried uselessly to categorize the scent—pine needles, the faintest trace of mechanical oil, sweat—but underneath it all was just Kit, warm skin and something some part of me recognized as safe, as mine, and I found myself rubbing my face against the rough hair like I was trying to absorb it.

“Have you ever touched yourself while thinking about me?” Kit whispered straight into my ear, causing gooseflesh to erupt down my neck.

“Yes,” I answered automatically, the word leaving my mouth without permission.

It was unusual for me. Unlike ninety-nine percent of the male population who were seemingly obsessed with wanking, I’d often go weeks at a time without feeling the urge to.

But last night in bed, I’d been aching hard and my thoughts had strayed to Kit’s hands all over me in the ballroom. Then my mind conjured that image of his naked body in the woods—his broad chest, the dark hair that trailed down past his navel, the glimpse I’d caught of his cock. I’d barely had to touch myself before I was violently coming, Kit’s name gasping from my lips in the darkness of my bedroom.

The memory of that moment made me move more urgently against him, chasing that same desperate intensity. Kit’s breathing grew heavier, and when I ground down particularly hard, he let out a sound that was half groan, half growl.

I wanted more. Needed more.

With a boldness that surprised me, I reached for Kit’s hand and guided it between us, pressing his palm against the hard line of my cock through my jeans.

Kit’s fingers curved around me immediately, applying just the right amount of pressure, and I nearly sobbed with relief. But even that wasn’t enough. The layers of fabric between us suddenly felt like torture. I wanted that hand under my jeans, wanted those fingers firmly wrapped around my cock, wanted—