Page 37 of Ricochet

Stone extends one hand, placing his palm flat against the wall beside me. Then he reaches out with his other one to tease my heated skin just above the towel at my waist.

My breath hitches at the contact.

He dips his finger beneath the fabric. One slight tug, and it would come unraveled.

“Don’t.” The single word comes out as a whimper, and I slam my eyes shut as humiliation washes over me.

“Are you sure?” he asks as his finger continues its light caress over my skin. “I think your dick’s trying to escape that towel.”

When I peer down, I see my erection is turning it into a tent. I nearly shut my eyes again as guilt and shame join every other chaotic, crushing emotion.

But then I see the growing bulge behind Stone’s compression leggings.

My gaze snaps up to his. His eyes are dark and feral.

He rolls his hips forward, just enough so his hard cock presses against mine through the layers between us. The friction of the rough fabric from the towel ignites that heat that’s still swirling around in my belly, turning it into molten lava.

I bite my lip to keep from moaning.

“You feel how hard you make me?” His rough whisper lingers in the thick air as he adds just a little more pressure until I see fucking stars. “It’s all for you, Callum.”

“Stop it.”

Those two words come out quiet and breathless.

I’m not entirely sure they escape me willingly.

Have I somehow purposefully put myself into this situation because I feel like I deserve it? Because it’s all I know?

Will I always say no even when I want to say yes?

“What is it?” Stone’s finger dips a little lower. “Still don’t like my mouth even when it’s saying dirty things to you? Would you like it to be doing something else?”

My chest rises and falls in harsh measures. All the air I’m sucking into my lungs is full of Stone’s words, the electricity of his touch. Not enough oxygen.

He smells even more like a storm right now.

There’s a slight tug of the towel.

I panic.

Shooting my hand out, I grasp his wrist, his skin scorching mine. I let out another whimpering, “Stop.”

Stone’s face falls. Then hardens.

My grip slips from his wrist as he takes a step back. I immediately miss the heat of his body, the promise of his touch.

He actually stopped.

Why am I surprised?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Stone turns away, walking back over to the bench where he silently pulls on a pair of jeans and slings his bag over his shoulder. I’m left leaning against the wall for support, watching as he heads for the exit.

He stops a few feet from the door. He swallows as his eyes remain facing forward, not looking back at me. “I’m sorry, Callum.”

And then he’s gone.

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