Page 163 of Holding On To Good

It was obvious. Her panties were visibly soaked, her nipples hard buds, her arousal a living, breathing thing scenting the air. “You know what I want.”

What part of more and harder didn’t the man understand?

But while being with him this way was a new learning experience, he was still Urban. The sweet, patient boy she’d grown up with. The thoughtful, controlled man she knew better than anyone else. He was stubborn, yes. But he wasn’t sadistic.

And though she’d never admit it—no matter how much he tempted and teased—she liked what he was doing to her. Liked this game they were playing, the building anticipation and push/pull of control.

Loved knowing that no matter how desperate she was becoming, he was right there with her, his hard cock jutting forward, the tip wet. His gaze dark, his expression set in fierce lines. He may act all calm and controlled, but he was as turned on as she was.

This insatiable need between them, this endless, lifelong want, wasn’t one-sided.

But then, she’d always known that.

Had always run from it. Hidden from it.

Now she was diving headlong into it.

“I want you to touch me,” she finally said.

He laid his palm on her center and she felt her pulse beat there, against his hand. “Here?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed the heel of his hand against her clit with still light, barely-there touches. “What about here?” he asked, tapping one of her nipples with the tip of her forefinger. It beaded farther, straining for more.

All she could do was nod.

He kept stroking her through her underwear with one hand, the other lightly, lightly tracing her areola, not done playing yet.

If only because she hadn’t given him what he wanted. Not yet. Not fully.

She wasn’t sure she could. It was that damn pride of hers again, screaming at her to be smart. To be careful. Trying to protect her from herself.

Too late.

Way, way too late.

Especially when he leaned forward and rubbed his beard against her nipple. Her entire body jerked in sensation. Her hips lifted of their own accord.

To hell with pride.

“Please,” she rasped, the word more breath than sound.

The grin he flashed her was all satisfaction and confidence and victorious. It was also just about the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

Which just proved that half of her brain cells must have melted and leaked right out of her usually sensible head.

But then Urban tugged her underwear aside and slid his forefinger in her, his satisfaction manifested itself again, this time in a deep, low grunt that had her core tightening around his finger and it didn’t matter that he’d turned her into a whimpering, simpering, pleading mass of lust. That she’d been reduced to begging or that she’d given into him yet again.

All that mattered was him. His touch, the long, slow strokes of his finger. His expression, stark and raw and hungry as he watched that finger move in and out of her. His voice, rough and pleased as he murmured, “You’re so wet for me.”

Latching on to his shoulders, she shut her eyes. Pleasure grew, bringing her closer and closer to release and when she was there, on the precipice of it, his hand stilled.

Her eyes flew open, her entire body shaking, her breaths coming out in short, quick pants.

“Say it again,” he commanded softly.

This time there wasn’t the slightest hesitancy to do his bidding. Any and all resistance to his will had evaporated along with most of her brain cells.

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