Page 49 of Newton

In the beginning, it felt like he was giving me space, like he wanted me to know that I meant more to him than anything sexual, but as time passes, it's really starting to give me a complex.

"Beck," I whisper.

He jolts, telling me that he is either right on the cusp of sleep or he has already passed out.

"Hmm?" He pulls me closer, something he does numerous times a night as if he doesn't want an inch of space between us.

However, it's contradictory to those actions.

"I was thinking," I say, my hand running down his chest, hating that he's wearing a shirt.

I'm a little obsessed when I can catch him before he puts one on in the evening and tug him into the bed without it. The contact drives me crazy.

I pull up the hem of his shirt, and smile in the darkness when his heart kicks up a notch under my ear.

I run my finger along the hot skin just above the waistband of his sweats, hating the darkness a little right now even though it's what's giving me the courage to touch him. I want to watch him grow under the fabric of his clothes. I want to see how his body responds to me because his lack of this type of attention is beginning to give me a complex.

"You were thinking?" he prods.

Asking him for what I need is difficult, make that impossible, I discover when I open my mouth and nothing comes out.

Rather than turn into a coward and pull away, I run my hand over his cock, a thrill of excitement making me want to squeeze my thighs together when I discover him fully hard.

He groans, his hips lifting upward to increase the pressure of my hand, but a second later, his hand is covering mine, to pull it from him not to press it harder.

I fight the burn of tears behind my eyes. I think his rejection might hurt worse than if he slapped me across the face.

"Should we talk first?" he asks, his voice husky and full of need despite his actions.

"I'm not really interested in talking right now," I say, wincing when my words come out tinged with the annoyance I feel.

It isn't fair to get upset if he doesn't want me. Those are traits I'm sure are left over from the time I lived with Nathan and Xan. They were always so quick to take things that weren't even offered that nonever really crossed my mind.

I try to pull away, but he only tightens his hold around my back, refusing to let me slink away.

"I don't want you doing something because you feel like you owe me," he says. "And this morning--"

"This isn't about that," I quickly interject before he could mention the new clothes he brought me after hearing me complain about my clothes getting a little tighter since I'm eating three meals a day with him rather than avoiding the kitchen like I did a lot of time at the shelter.

"Then what is it about?"

I know he wants the words, but I could never ask him for such things out loud.

Nathan made me beg for things I didn't want so now doing the same thing for something I'm desperate for is ruined.

"This," I tell him, gripping the back of his hand and running it down my body.

I slip our combined hands behind the waistband of my leggings, making sure his fingers glide through the desire I have for him.

I can't guarantee that he's on board despite the moan of need that slips out of him. The man has more patience than a saint, and although most days it's exactly what I need, I have other requirements right now.

"God, you're so fucking wet. Are you aching?"

I bite my lower lip, unable to speak as he presses a single finger inside of me.

When I don't answer he pulls his hand back, but I manage to catch it before he pulls it free. The wetness trailing his touch on my lower belly feels obscene and somehow perfect.

"I ache for you," I confess. "Don't make me beg."

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