Page 82 of Unharmed

When he dropped his pants and stood there in nothing but his underwear, I got an even better view.

“Wow,” I marveled, my eyes roaming over every inch of him.

“Took the word right out of my mouth,” he replied, bending at the waist and dropping his mouth to my outer thigh.

His hands were on either side of my body, but his touch was gentle. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it, considering it had been so long since any man besides Graham had touched me.

And while I thought I’d find myself focusing on his hands and where they were going, I wasn’t.

Well, technically, I was. But I was more focused on his mouth.

Despite the heat and intensity I’d seen in Banks’s eyes when he had been looking at me nearly naked on the bed, he didn’t seem to be in a rush. His lips were soft as they trailed across my skin, moving along my thighs and up toward my hips.

When he made it there, his fingertips curled around the waistband of my underwear, but he hesitated to pull them down my legs. Instead, his lips blazed a path across my abdomen, stopping to kiss me just beneath my navel before he inhaled deeply.

He released his hold on the material at my hips, splayed both hands around my sides, and continued his journey up my body.

And he took his time doing it.

I had no idea how he demonstrated such restraint. Here I was, ready for him to take me how he wanted me, and Banks was content to simply wander and explore using both his hands and mouth.

There was nothing I could do other than feel. Close my eyes and feel what he was doing. The more I allowed myself to let go of any expectations I had about our night and where things were going—or how quickly we’d get there—the more I enjoyed what was happening. In fact, it was then I decided I wanted some of the same.

So, I allowed my hands to roam. I kissed when I could. It was a wonderfully slow buildup, something I was grateful Banks had decided to give to the both of us.

In the midst of it all, we lost the remainder of our clothes, and the touching became more purposeful. Banks’s hands went to my breasts, his mouth on my nipples. He effortlessly teased me, having me desperate and on the verge of begging once again.

When one of his hands slipped down between my legs and touched me there, the whimper that escaped from me told him exactly how I was feeling. His fingers rubbed and circled my clit. His lips found mine again, and as his tongue dipped inside my mouth, Banks’s fingertips applied just the right amount of pressure to keep me squirming.

I couldn’t take it any longer.

When he pulled his mouth from mine, I begged, “Banks, please.”

That was all it took.

Banks settled himself between my parted thighs, positioned himself using one hand, and kept his eyes locked on mine.

Then he pushed forward. And as every inch of himentered my body, my lips parted, and my nails dug into the skin at his shoulders.

He groaned, the sound deep and feral. I’d convinced myself he’d passed the point of taking things slow, but I was wrong.

Just because we’d reached this point, it didn’t mean anything when it came to Banks’s pace. He kept things slow and lazy, like he believed if he moved too fast, he might miss something.

When I drew that conclusion, I realized I needed to stop worrying about how fast or slow he was going and just enjoy what he was giving.

Because it was wonderful.

So, I focused on the power of his strokes, the feel of each inch of him as he thrust slowly inside me, and the way his eyes moved over my face and skin when his mouth was connected to me.

And his hands hadn’t stopped. They touched my body or interlaced with my fingers.

Banks was completely involved in what was happening between us. He was consumed by it, and seeing that, I became lost.

In him.

In us.

In the feel of our bodies.

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