Page 71 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bargain

My clit throbs again, and I bite back a groan at the thought of what it would feel like to have him inside me.

Goddamn these fucking hormones.

It’s the last thing I should be thinking about.

He’s my friend—my savior, really—but he can’t be anything more. Still, the thought of climbing on top of him and letting him slip inside is far too appealing to simply erase from my thoughts.

His hand slides over mine where it rests on my thigh, and I jerk my gaze up over his perfectly formed abs and honed chest, built by years of hard, manual labor. That work may have destroyed what was already broken, but it has sculpted Dalton into an exquisite, perfect example of the male form.

My eyes finally reach his, and we stare at each other, tethered by shared need, while both of us are restrained by our own reasons not to act on what we clearly both want in this moment.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, watching me. “Maybe you should go.”

The words seem almost excruciating for him to speak, but the flash of distress that rushes through me with his suggestion says far more about what my choice is going to be than what my head wants to say.

This doesn’t have to mean anything.

It can just be relieving this tension that exists between us and that these damn hormones are building inside me…

That’s what I tell myself as I slide my hand out from under his and grip his hard length.

He hisses, his eyes drifting closed as I stroke him in one long, slow movement that takes my palm up across the head of his cock where a bead of pre-cum glistens.

“Fucking hell, Camille.”

The throaty groan only throws more gas onto the inferno already blazing inside me, and I shift impatiently on my knees, trying to find a position that helps alleviate the ache between my legs.

His eyes fly open and drift down to his hand resting on my thigh.

So close to where I want it.

Where I need it.

I tighten my grip on him.

His jaw clenches, a muscle there ticcing violently as his hand drifts low to the seam of the maternity stretch pants I never had time to change out of before I rushed over here today. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Camille.”

The painful-sounding admission should be a stark reminder of why we should stop.

He’s so much younger than me.

Completely inexperienced.

And in absolutely no position to be making these types of decisions.

Yet, I can’t bring myself to pull away.

I stroke him again and again, dragging my palm across the slick head of his cock as I turn slightly to give him better access.

He murmurs something under his breath I can’t quite catch, too focused on the heat building between my legs before he’s even touched me there.

I shift my knees wider, and his hand glides up between them until he’s cupping me. That flicker of contact is enough to make me buck against his hold, and he groans, then pushes his fingers up along the harsh seam of the material, rubbing it into my already-soaked underwear.

My eyes drift closed on a silent gasp, my hand tightening around his cock. His hips arch up into my fist, and he glides his fingers across me in a slow rhythm that creates the most beautiful friction but doesn’t quite give me what I need.

Practically panting now, my hips grinding against him in a frantic search, I release his cock. His eyes fly open with concern, and I reach down to the waistband of my pants and shove them down my hips far enough to give him better access.

I grasp his wrist and guide his hand right over me, where only a thin piece of already-soaked silky fabric separates us.

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