Page 96 of One Wrong Move

Heat pulses through me at the words. “I was going to say watch TV on my laptop.” My whispered words sound breathless. I swallow hard. “But… yes. Sometimes, I do that.”

The hand on my hip glides, just ever so slightly, across my skin. The sound is audible in the space between us. “I see.”

“What do you do?” I ask.

“Read sometimes.”

“But not usually.”

“No,” he says, fingers now feathering over my stomach. “Not usually.”

“So what’s the usual routine?”

His warm chuckle brushes over my neck, and I shiver at the pleasure of it. “Well, I don’t need a vibrator, but…”

“Oh.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I arch deeper into his hold. The hand on my stomach is stroking slow, lazy circles. Setting every cell of my skin on edge, and I want him to touch more of me. I tip my head back, mouth close to his, and start tugging my camisole up.

“Your hands are warm.”

“Yeah?” His hand follows the receding hemline of my cami, up my ribs, until fingers brush the underside of my breast. My breath whooshes out as those fingers brush once, twice, until his palm closes entirely over my left breast.

“Very warm,” I confirm on an exhale.

“Glad to be of service.” His voice is muffled against my head, and his thumb keeps stroking. The peak of my nipple. It hardens between two of his fingers, and liquid fire spreads from the touch, racing down to between my thighs. The darkness and heat envelop me completely, but I hear myself breathing, too loud in the quiet room.

“Nate,” I whisper.

His lips brush along my neck, his hand still tweaking my nipple. “Harper,” he whispers back.

I grind against him behind me. I want his hand to continue. To touch more of me.

Nate chuckles. “I see. You really do need me to play the vibrator part. Well…” His hand brushes over my breast once more before sliding in tight little circles down my ribcage and stomach to the elastic of my panties. Deft fingers play with the band for a second while my heart thuds a thunderous beat in my chest, and then he dives below the fabric.

His fingers stroke between my legs. All of my attention zeros in on that touch and the goosebumps rising in the wake of fingertips ghosting over my flesh.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “I see.”

See what? But I’m too focused on the feeling of his hand there, and I shift my top leg to give him better access. His fingers stroke along the full length of my folds, and I shiver when he brushes my clit.

“Turn onto your back,” he tells me. His voice comes out raspy.

He shifts, and I move with him until I’m on my back with my legs bent and my feet flat against the mattress.

“That’s it.” His free arm slides under my neck and over, forearm resting on my chest. And through it all, he never stops touching me. Fingers beneath the fabric of my panties, mapping me. Teasing me.

“Is this what you do at home?” he asks. “In the guest bedroom…”

“Sometimes,” I breathe. He’s found the hard nub of my clit and is rubbing it in firm, tight circles. It sends heat pounding through me, and I arch into his touch.

“You like that.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He makes a deep, pleased sound and takes his hand away. I open my mouth to protest when I feel it at my hip instead, gripping the fabric. I help him push my panties down. They end up halfway over my thighs.

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