Page 97 of Sterling Stone

“Yes.” She tugs at the side of her skirt. The same one she was wearing the first night I met her. Layers of fabric in rich brown tones, each stripe a differing pattern. Her skirt is so symbolic of her. She’s multi-layered—textured and complex, but soft, pliant—especially in this moment.

While she lifts her skirt, I slip my hands beneath the material, coasting my palms over her thighs and meeting in her center, where she is warm and as wet as I expected. I hook my finger around the slim fabric covering her and run my knuckle against her seam.

She leans back, hands falling against the counter to brace her.

We both glance at where my hand is hidden beneath the pile of her skirt over her lap. There’s something extra about my hand covered, her thighs spread, the material hiding what I’m doing to her.

We can’t see it, we feel it.

Her ankle hooks around the back of my knee, and she pulls me forward. “Superman.”

“Been thinking about me?” Her body holds the answer. Her breath hitching as I easily slip a finger into her. Taking from her. Accepting the gifts she’s giving me. Her. Her body. Her time.

“Yes,” she whimpers, knees spread wide, ankle against my knee.

She rocks against my finger, and I add a second to the first, filling her as best I can.

Taxi cups my jaw and I meet her eyes. She sheepishly smiles and I match the curve of her lips as I work my fingers in and out of her. She crooks her finger into the collar of my T-shirt and tugs me forward. My lips meet hers, and my tongue seeks, mirroring my fingers in her channel with my tongue in her mouth.

I rock forward, mimicking the same motion with my hips. The desire to thrust into her. The need to fill her in other ways.

“Fuck, I want you,” I murmur against her mouth. It’s been a week since I’ve touched her like this. The intimacy. The rush. The need to be closer to her.

“Yes,” she says again, like it’s the only word she knows and she’s giving it to me.

“Let me see,” I say. “Let me see how I fill you up.”

She hikes up even more of her skirt, holding it higher, so I can see how my fingers fit her, what they do to her. She’s slick and hot.

“Please,” she whimpers.

“Not gonna stop, baby.” I almost want her to come undone more than I want it for myself. To know this strong yet vulnerable woman trusts me to touch her, to give her pleasure.

“No,” she whispers, and I stop. It’s the only word I need to hear.

She covers my wrist with her hand. “No. Us. Together.” She gently pulls my hand from her and presses at my shoulder with her other hand.

“Taxi,” I question.

She continues pushing me back until she can slide from the counter, and then she spins to face the mirror. I meet her eyes in it.

“Please,” she begs, those silver eyes working their magic on me. She pulls up her skirt while at the same time reaches for me, squeezing at the bulge in my jeans. The thickness straining against my zipper, begging for release.

“Like this?” I question.

She chews her lower lip. “I need you, Stone.”

Fuck!

The phone conversation and driveway make-out sessions, and all the little touches in between . . . I need her, too.

Hastily, I unbuckle my belt and unfasten my jeans.

“Next time, we go slow,” I warn her. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror again.

“Next time,” she slowly smiles, like the idea of doing this again makes her happy.

My chest expands. My heart hammers.