Page 34 of Evolved

But I’m still hot.

So hot.

Desperately so, distractingly so.

So much it’s not clear thought that has me sliding my hand down into the waistband of my sleep pants, down between my legs; it’s instinct.

He’s the one who told me to remove the sock from my mouth and say what I had to say. I assume that means I should also do what I need to do.

“What are you doing?” Knox asks. His voice isn’t sleepy anymore.

Not at all.

“You know what I’m doing,” I whisper back.

“I really don’t, Ottilie. What are you doing?”

My breath is coming so fast, dizzyingly fast, so fast if we were standing, I think I’d fall over. “I’m thinking of you.”

10|Let me

OTTILIE

HIS MOUTH LANDSon the back of my neck, hot, open-mouthed, the scrape of teeth, a rush of breath, wet and sucking and rippling across my skin like a stone dropped in a pond, sending shockwaves in every direction.

It’s not the kind of touch that eases the dizziness or cools the heat—the exact opposite. It has my breath coming frantically, hyperventilatingly fast, my abdomen rising, my hips rolling into the unhelpful press of my own fingers.

It’s his I want.

His teeth graze my skin, a knife of heat slashing like a plumbline straight to my low belly, a ripply, fluttery clenching heat that says I’m so empty, empty everywhere, mind, body, and soul, and if I’d allow it, he could fill that emptiness.

He shifts, his hand finding the bottom of my shirt, rough, calloused fingers gracing the tender skin of my belly, up to palm my breast.

“Yes.” I breathe, shuddering when his thumb finds my nipple.

My eyes roll backward.

Every part of me is so sensitive but uniquely tuned to him, like a hundred strangers could touch me, and I’d feel nothing, but he could stroke the bead of my nipple, and I might die of ecstasy.

He says my name, his tongue dragging up my neck, and I arch again, writhing, nonsensical, arrhythmic, just needing more.

My hips roll back against him, forward into my own hand. It’s a compulsion, like a shiver or a death throe.

I couldn’t stay still if I tried.

His hand leaves my breast and travels south. Hard fingers curl around my wrist, tug the arm that’s connected to the hand that’s down in my pants, pulling it away.

“Let me,” he says.

I do.

I do it gladly, all of me opening for him, legs spreading, neck arching.

Anything.

He can have anything if it’s mine to give.

Bigger, rougher, but so gentle, so slow, his fingers slide downward between my legs.

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