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Me.
With one hand gripping my dress in place, I trail my other lower, smoothing over the wrinkled fabric. I know what I’ll find as soon as I brush over my curls: the dampness, the need...
God, I want it to be him, his fingers, his caress, but seeing the way his eyes darken, his jaw pulses, power swamps me.
It doesn’t matter that he’s giving the demands, the instruction, the effect I have on him is as powerful as any command he issues.
‘I want you to part me...’ I watch his eyes flare at my directness and fall to the V I create with my fingers, separating my folds, exposing my slick, wet heat to his burning gaze. Christ, if the cold wind doesn’t sweep over my throbbing clit and tease as much as a physical caress from his fingers would.
I keep the dress in place with my arm, freeing my other hand to lower...
‘I want you to stroke me...’
My words break as I do just that and my hips buck into my caress, needing the friction, the tantalising roll.
‘I want you...’
His jaw pulses; his eyes flick up to mine. ‘You want?’
I bite my lip. This is too much—too much force, too much sensitivity. The icy air adds to the thrill as it sweeps over my naked extremities. My nipples, my pussy, my clit.
I shake my head as the tell-tale heat swirls through me, tightening up my limbs, my lungs, my breath.
‘Tell me, Caitlin.’
‘I want you... I want you.’
‘Not enough. You need to tell me exactly what you want.’
Through the lusty fog, the whipping heat, I catch something raw, something honest in his voice and I force my eyes open, force them to connect
with his, to see through whatever this game is. Because it’s more than just sex. Of that I am sure.
Oh, I’ll tell him everything, deliver every detailed demand, if that’s what he wants, what he needs. Christ, I’ll beg if I have to. I’ll do anything to see this need sated but the severity, the almost desperate need I see in his gaze, feel in his words, has me sobering just enough to question it, but not enough to douse the heat.
And I know if I question it openly I’ll push him away, just as I see the tightrope on which we currently walk. That, regardless of my vulnerability, my partial nakedness, my surrender, he will walk away from this.
What I don’t understand is why.
Jackson is always so sure, so in control, so in command of every situation, but I sense a shift in him. A shift that has me reaching out for his hand and drawing him against my breast, my other hand working myself harder, faster, higher.
‘Please,’ I say, coaxing his fingers over my skin. As much as I love getting off with him watching, I want him a part of this—my undoing, my loss of control.
I want to know he’s losing it too.
‘What, Caitlin?’
‘I want you to be the one doing this, the one cupping my breasts, caressing, teasing, pinching...’ I arch back against the tree, thrusting them into his touch as I manipulate his hand into doing as I say. ‘I want you to bury your fingers in my...my...’
‘Your?’ His voice is rough, thick, and his eyes blaze into mine, the colour high in his cheeks, telling me he’s on fire with me. He strokes his free hand down my arm, follows its path to the apex of my thighs and hovers.
‘Your?’ he repeats, more steady, controlled.
‘My pussy.’ It erupts out of me and the approval I see in his face is almost my undoing.
‘I’ll do it...on one condition.’
‘Anything.’ I’m not sure I say it aloud. The blood is whirring in my ears, my body, the pleasure-filled ache fierce and building.
