Page 111 of And Now, Back to You

He nods. “I want to be able to see you.”

He repeats the same methodical process on the other side of my bra, my bare breast spilling free, held up by the material underneath. Jackson lets out a slow exhale. Another rock of his hips against my ass.

“Look at you,” he says. He cups my breasts with both hands, thumbs rubbing over my nipples. We’ve hardly done anything and I already feel electric. Like I’m dancing along the edge of a live wire, each spark connected to Jackson’s fingertips. He rubs another slow circle. Again and again until I’m making bitten-off noises. He buries his face in my neck, teeth bared against my skin.

“Fuck. Delilah. I don’t know if—”

“I’m going to need more than this,” I beg, body rolling, chasing the maddening friction. It’s too slow. Too intentional. There’s a hollow heat between my legs and no friction. I need more. “You don’t have to worry, okay? Whatever it is that’s holding you back, stop. You’re safe with me, Jackson. I promise, I promise, I pro—”

He rolls me over until I’m pinned with my belly against the mattress, his big body pushing down against my back. One hand sinks into my hair and pulls my head back while the other thrusts into my absolutely ridiculous pants.

“You can’t say things like that to me, Delilah.”

I wiggle in his hold, trying to spread my legs to give him more room. “Why not?”

He swipes his fingers across the front of my underwear, groaning when he feels how wet it is. “Because I’ll want to keep you,” he mutters.

“Good,” I groan, my fingers fisting in the sheets. “I want you to keep me.”

I don’t even feel the cold anymore. Just Jackson at my back and flannel against my front, my nipples rubbing against the material with every shift of my body.

“Stop talking,” he grunts as his fingers clumsily tuck my underwear against my thigh, the material of my snow pants making it awkward. But Jackson perseveres, his thumb rubbing short, hard circles at the very top of my clit. “You’re driving me crazy.”

I bite down on the edge of the pillow with a little whine, hips rocking, chasing the friction he’s giving me. I can barely move at all with the way he’s holding me down, and that’s another rush of liquid heat, right where he’s stroking just a shade too rough. His thumb keeps catching against me and my breath hiccups every time, a filthy and indecent soundtrack in the otherwise silent room.

“The way you sound,” he grinds out, yanking at my pants, trying to see more of me. He’s impatient now. Just as impatient as I am. Finally. With his hand pinned between me and the bed, it’s the perfect angle for me to work my hips. He lets me rock against his fingers and it’s exactly what I need. Messy and delicious. Rough. Perfect.

“The way you look. Christ, Delilah. You’d let me do whatever I want, wouldn’t you?”

I nod into the pillow. “I trust you.”

“Good,” he breathes, and then he shifts his hand. The pressure, the angle, the slow glide of two fingers inside of me . . . I press one knee up on the bed and chase it. How quickly we went from bare skin to this.

Flecks of gold dance at the edge of my vision. My face is half buried in the pillow, half turned toward Jackson, just the line of his shoulder visible, bunched with tension as he works me over. The pleasure is so sharp I almost don’t want it. But I lie there and let Jackson take exactly what he wants from my body. I let it build. I take it. I take it and I revel in it.

“So good.” He leans more of his weight against me, the hand in my hair planted flat against the bed. I turn my head and sink my teeth into his wrist, grinning when he hisses. “Delilah.” A sharp roll of his hand as punishment. “Don’t push me.”

I laugh, breathy and high. “But look what happens when I do.”

His attention between my legs focuses, slows—heavy, thorough thrusts of his hand that shove me over the edge before I can find anything to hold on to. I free-fall into orgasm with my forehead pressed against his wrist, my lips pressed together, a sharp breath through my nose. I feel like a feather in gale-force winds; tossed up, up, up before the winds cut out and I drift lazily down.

I sink into the mattress, a boneless puddle. I am suffused with heat. Sweat at my temples and between my bare breasts. Deliciously warm.

But I want more. I want to see him unravel too.

I prop myself up on my elbows and glance over my shoulder, Jackson still above me with his knees on either side of my hips. I’m caged in, but protected, his body a shelter over mine.

It’s the first time I’ve gotten a good look at everything those button-downs have been teasing at. Jackson’s body is lean but strong. A wide chest and narrow hips. Strong arms with solid muscles that flex and release as he twists his hands in the bedsheets.

I reach back and touch his bare hip. Right where his sweatpants are pulled low. He shies away from my touch, chest heaving.

“I don’t know if I can—” His head drops back, his face toward the ceiling, eyes pinched closed. I watch the line of his throat flex with his heavy swallow. “I don’t know if I can, Delilah.”

“It’s okay to take something for yourself,” I whisper.

His jaw clenches. “I don’t know.”

“You do.” I curl my hand around his hip, tracing the cut of muscle there with my thumbnail. He shivers. “I know you do. And it’s okay. You can have it.”