Page 97 of Knotting With A Stranger

His hands catch mine, stilling them with gentle pressure. “Not so fast. I think I want something in exchange first.”

“I’m fresh out of money,” I quip, gesturing to the long t-shirt I’m wearing with nothing underneath—one of James’, borrowed after waking up in his bed.

“Oh, I can think of other forms of payment,” he purrs, and my knees weaken. “Like hearing you say exactly what you want me to do to you.”

Heat floods my face, but not from embarrassment. There’s something incredibly arousing about his request—about being asked to voice my desires out loud.

“I want you to kiss me again,” I begin, finding courage in the darkening of his eyes. “And then I want you to touch me. Everywhere.”

“Specific,” he teases, but his breathing has quickened. “I like it.”

He steps closer, backing me against the wall. His body is a warm presence against mine, close enough to feel but not yet pinning me. His lips find my neck, a soft brush of heat against my skin, and I gasp as he trails kisses along my throat, each one searing and deliberate.

“More,” I whisper, my voice shaky and breathless.

His chuckle is low and dark. “Greedy.”

His teeth graze my skin, and my back arches into him, desperate for more. Sliding my hands into the waistband of his sweatpants, I curl my fingers around the fabric, tugging, but before I can get far, his hand catches my wrist.

“Not yet,” he growls, and before I can protest, he spins me to face the wall, my palms flattening against the cool surface. His body presses against mine from behind, solid muscle pinning me in place. His breath is warm against my ear.

“You want me rough or tender, sweet?” His voice is low, gravelly, and full of wicked intent.

My pulse stutters. “Rough,” I rasp. “Oh, rough for sure.”

A sharp breath escapes him, and his hand fists the back of my oversized shirt—the only thing I’m wearing. With one swift motion, he drags it up, baring my thighs, my hips, my back. His palm slides up my leg, fingers splaying wide over my skin as if he’s savoring every inch.

“So fucking perfect,” he mutters, his hand kneading my hip. “Bet you knew exactly what you were doing, walking around in nothing but this shirt.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, arching into his touch.

His fingers trail upward, teasing, tracing along the curve of my waist before gripping me tighter, dragging my hips back against him. I feel him—hot, hard, and relentless—grinding against me through the thin fabric of his sweatpants.

“Feel that?” His voice is a low snarl in my ear. “That’s what you’re craving.”

I gasp, my head tipping back to rest against his shoulder. “Please.”

He rolls his hips again, and a sharp, needy sound escapes me.

His hand slides between my thighs, his fingers spreading me wider.

“You’re already soaking for me,” he growls. “Tell me you need it. Say it.”

“Fuck, Archer, you’re going to kill me,” I pant, my voice barely a whisper. “I need you.”

His fingers find my pussy, pushing my lips apart, and my whole body jolts as he slides two thick fingers inside me. A cry rips from my throat, my legs threatening to buckle, but he presses closer, holding me steady with his other arm wrapped tight around my waist.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. “Take it, angel.” His finger pumps inside me, slow and deep, teasing me until I’m gasping, my body burning up from the inside out.

“More,” I whimper, pressing my hips back against him, desperate for more friction, more pressure—more him.

His teeth catch my earlobe, his voice a dark promise. “You’re not ready for more.”

“I am,” I gasp. “I can take it.”

His growl vibrates against my skin, and suddenly, his hand leaves me. Before I can protest, he shoves his sweatpants down, the warmth of him pressing hard and thick against me. My breath catches, and the ache inside me sharpens to a desperate, burning need because he might just be thicker than James and Hunter. I wasn’t expecting that.

“Say my name again.”

---