Page 67 of Make Me Want it Too

I feel him scoot down to the end of the bed and then his hands are on my calves, his fingers kneading my flesh. I think I let out a little moan but it’s muffled by the pillow.

“How are you doing, Mace?” His hands move up to my knees.

“Good,” I say into the pillow, not sure if he heard me.

He massages up, up above my knees. Then higher.

I’m hot all over, blood pumping under my skin. It rushes between my legs, the heat blossoming with such intensity I can feel my pulse right there.

His hands inch higher up my thighs.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice low and husky.

“Mm-hmm.”

Wood moves his hands up under my shirt, over my panties, his fingers rubbing my bottom while his thumbs dip down lower. Down to where my behind creases. Lower still, to where the heat is pooling.

Energy prickles under my skin. The need growing.

Each time he touches me, closer and closer to where I’m aching for more.

I need more.

“Still doing good?” he asks.

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Spread your legs for me, love.”

I inch my legs apart, the dull ache between them instantly giving way to uncontrollable throbbing. I need pressure. I need him to?—

He slides his fingers down, touching me right where I need him, applying the perfect pressure to my pulsing clit and rubbing circles over it.

I whimper into the pillow. Loud. Embarrassingly he-definitely-heard-me loud.

And then the delicious pressure is gone, and I want to whimper more in protest.

Warm fingertips touch my hips and then slip under the waistband of my panties.

“I’m going to take these off now,” he whispers. “If that’s okay.”

I lift my hips off the mattress. He doesn’t need any more confirmation. He hooks his fingers into my panties and slides them down my hips, over my bottom, then down my legs and off.

He doesn’t have to ask me to spread my legs this time as he runs his hand up the inside of my thigh.

My heartbeat is pounding in my ears, overtaking any thoughts. I’m only sensations. My physical body and how it’s reacting to Wood touching me. Hot. Liquid. Buzzing.

The dampness between my thighs would be embarrassing if I weren’t drunk with need. Nothing else matters but his fingers slipping between my folds, slick and hot. And then he’s rubbing my clit again. It swells under his fingertips.

I moan.

“Turn over,” he demands.

I roll over onto my back, my shirt ridden up, bunched around my waist.

Wood is sitting between my knees, back on his haunches. His blue eyes are hot on me. Feral. Unblinking. His lips are parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

His hands are on his thighs, his gray sweatpants taut, stretched and straining against his muscled thighs and—and the obvious bulge between them. Angled up toward his hip, the clear outline of his erection is long and thick and suddenly I can’t breathe.

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