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His eyes finally dropped.
The look on his face nearly undid me.
His restraint didn’t disappear. It fractured.
I grabbed his shirt and pulled it off.
I suddenly had an abundance of bare, glorious muscled flesh in my hands. I touched him everywhere, pushed him until he was flat on his back.
His shoulders filled half my bed.
I ran my hands over them, down his chest, over the hard ridges of his stomach. He was warm everywhere. Solid everywhere. All those years of watching him get bigger, stronger, broader had apparently failed to prepare me for what any of it felt like beneath my palms.
His stomach tightened whenever my fingers crossed it.
I did it again just to watch.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said.
“I’ve been deprived.”
His eyes sharpened. “By who?”
“You.”
That shut him up.
I sat up, straddling him. He still wore his jeans but as I shifted my seat on top of him I made solid contact with his hard-on. I looked down, shifted a bit. Blinked. “How do you hide that thing?”
He choked out a laugh. “I don’t typically go around with it like this.”
I shifted again.
His laugh died.
My hands went to the snap of his jeans, ripped them open.
His hand closed over mine.
“We can’t do this.” He was panting. His body did not agree with his words. He didn’t move to stop me. Rather he touched the hand touching him.
I looked at his hand covering mine.
Then at him.
“Why?”
He closed his eyes for a second.
Finally he spoke, and the words felt like he forced them out. “You need to break up with Clayton first.”
My whole body froze. I studied his face.
Had he lost his mind? “I am not with Clayton.”
His face did something funny, something fascinating, sort of fell and settled.
Every muscle in him went still.
