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Ford nods once, then presses his forehead against mine and reaches between my legs once more. He doesn’t try to kiss me even though I really, really want him too. Instead, he slides his hand beneath the waistband of my leggings and knickers. His fingers find my slick heat and my eyes flutter shut at the sensation of his skin against mine.
“Look at me, Asia. Don’t take your eyes off me,” he demands. His voice is thick with feeling. Withlust. It breaks me that little bit more and as much as I want to keep my eyes shut, I can’t deny him this. Right at this moment, I’m not sure I’ll be able to deny him anything.
My eyes snap open as he pulls back slightly, watching me react to the way he’s touching me. His finger finds my clit, circling gently. I moan, and he bites down on his lip in response, his chest heaving. I wonder why he’s holding back, why he doesn’t try to kiss me. I want to ask, but the feeling he's stoking within me won’t let me concentrate on anything but how fucking good I feel. I’m so damn wet. So hot for him. He’s dangerous for my heart, this one. I understand that simple truth in the moment, but I don’t care.
When his fingers circle my entrance, I whimper at his gentleness, at the way he’s coaxing me, drawing my orgasm out. I’ve never experienced anything like this before.
My lips part as he sinks his finger inside me right up to the knuckle, the pad of his thumb pressing on my clit gently as he does so.
I let out a low, steady moan.
He leans in closer, flicking his gaze between my eyes and lips. I want him to kiss me so badly,so fucking badly. But I’m so caught up in his gaze and the sensations as he moves his finger in and out of me in a gentle rhythm that I can’t move.
“That’s it, Asia. Come for me,” he mutters.
As his lips hover over my own, his soft breaths fluttering across my skin, I do exactly what he asks and see stars.
* * *
An hourlater I’m a sweaty mess. My muscles are roaring with pain at the strenuous exercises Ford has made me do and I’m barely standing on wobbly legs. Whilst he too is sweaty and panting, he’s nowhere near as physically affected as I am. We’ve sparred. He’s taught me how to punch with conviction and where. I’ve learnt a lot.
Ford hands me a bottle of water. I take it from him, open it up and drink the whole lot in one go.
“You did good today,” he says. It’s a throwaway compliment, but I take it.
“Thanks.”
I’m completely drenched in sweat and know that I must look like a complete mess. My t-shirt is completely stuck to my chest and I feel disgusting. Stupidly, I hadn’t thought to bring a change of clothing. Looking like this is bound to raise questions especially since I’m nowhere near the gym. I guess I could say that I’ve been running around the field. Then again, for the last hour there’s been a P.E. lesson going on outside, one that’s not on my timetable for this double period.
“Next time bring a change of clothes,” Ford states, grabbing his t-shirt from the back of a chair in the corner of the room. He chucks it at me. “You can wear this.”
Grabbing it, I pull a face.
“It’s clean. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
Actually that isn’t what I was thinking. I was thinking that I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to school my feelings when I slip his top over my head. Even now, holding it against my chest I can smell him on it.
“What about you?” I ask, gesturing to his bare chest.
“I’ve got a sweater,” he walks over to the duffle bag perched on the seat and pulls out a black sweater. He yanks it over his head, his hair falling into his eyes, then waits.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, his chin jutting out a little towards the t-shirt I’m holding.
My cheeks heat at the implication. I mean, I’m wearing a bra and all, but still…
“Shy?”
He had his hand down my pants not more than an hour ago, I shouldn’t be. Yet, I am.
“No,” I lie, clutching his t-shirt between my thighs and pulling off my top. I’m wearing a simple t-shirt bra, black with no lace. It’s probably about as sexy as a pair of granny knickers, but then again what does it matter.
“You’ve got tattoos,” Ford remarks. It’s a statement really, not a question. He has a habit of doing that.
“Yes. I have three. One on my thigh, one on my back and the one you see here,” I say, pointing to the bleeding heart with a dagger stabbed through the centre of it. It sits right in the middle of my chest between my breasts.
“What’s that mean?” he asks, pointing to the heart and dagger tattoo. He steps closer, to get a better look I assume.
“If I don’t answer, are you going to do what you did before?” I ask tentatively.
