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He trailed his finger across her bottom lip. “Sure?”
No. Yes. Not trusting her vocal cords, she gave a terse nod.
Sliding his hand over her belly and into her pajama shorts, Oliver never broke eye contact, as if watching her for any signs of hesitation.
Rough panting cut through the silence. The sound was coming from her, she realized, and he hadn’t even touched her yet, hovering just out of reach of where she needed him. Letting her knees fall wider apart, she lifted into his touch.
It was the invitation he’d apparently been waiting for, skimming through her slick heat. A flush had worked high up his cheekbones. Eyes glistening, he watched her as he parted her folds, stroked with a single finger.
Needing something to anchor herself, she grasped his arm, feeling muscles shift as he teased her.
“Oliver.” More a rasp than a word.
“I need you to do something for me,” he said, his smoldering gaze direct. “Show me how you want to be touched—what makes you hottest.”
Her hazy brain didn’t quite grasp his words. “Oliver—”
“Yes. Now.”
He demanded too much—her vulnerability. And yet she couldn’t deny him. Placing her trembling hand over his, she dragged his fingers through her wetness. His low groan sent a reflexive shiver through her.
When he sank two blunt fingers deep, she arched up on a gasp.
Breaking eye contact, he angled his face away from her, until she could only see his unmarred side in the shadows. The side that most looked like his old self. She missed the shifting emotions that had played across his face, but she wouldn’t demand more than he could give.
Oliver drove into her, rough and relentless, like he was marking her. His thumb found her clit… circling, insistent. Her legs shook, nails biting into his wrist, lungs burning because she couldn’t focus on breathing. Only on him—building the pressure, still refusing to look at her.
His name fell from her lips as she bowed into his hand, riding each wave he pulled from her. And still he didn’t turn.
Only when she slumped, boneless, did he withdraw, and left the bed.
Twisting, she watched him at the window, staring into nowhere, his shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath.
Her legs were unsteady, but she climbed off the bed anyway. “I should go.”
Oliver didn’t turn. “Sure. Go ahead and run. It’s what Yarrows do.”
He had a point. Her family was a flight risk.
But she wasn’t like them.
Not that it mattered to Oliver. Men hurt by her brother never saw her as separate from him. Learning that lesson once before had been enough.
Coming into his room had been a mistake, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her.
With as much dignity as she could muster, she walked out of his room on wobbly legs.
She’d never repeat that mistake.
Chapter 17
Early Sunday morning, Addison was on her way to make herself breakfast when the crunch of tires on gravel drew her to the foyer.
Was Sylvia back? Had someone else on a quest to murder Kyle come calling?
Bracing herself for the next round of bad news, she threw open the door—
And faced a startled older woman.
