Page 137 of Deliverance

My hands begin to shake under the stream of warm water and I grind my teeth so hard, I’m afraid they may crush.

The faint sound of footsteps in the bedroom snaps me back to reality. I twist the faucet with unnecessary ferocity and grab a towel to wipe off the excessive water.

Whore.

My whore.

I let loose a shuddering breath and head out but freeze on the threshold to revel at the sight of Zander’s body. He’s in front of the dresser, facing the window, and the soft city lights pooling into the room from outside cast a shimmering glow over his tall, lean, powerful form.

He looks ethereal.

My mouth goes dry and this thirst—this odd craving—is different from what someone experiences when dehydrated. It’s not a glass of water that I need.

It’s him.

Swallowing, I nimbly cross the room and position myself behind his back, my chin level with his shoulder blades.

He turns his head to glance at me, his lips parting to say something, but I silence him with a small shake of my head and slip my palm around to rest them on his stomach.

“Drew…” Zander begins, my name hardly a whisper that fades away into the cool silence of the night. “I—” He never finishes the thought, because my fingers tugging on the shirt to free it from under his belt distract him.

There’s a soft hiss.

Heat coils between my thighs, and for the first time in years, I act on it. I press myself against the hard, sensual male body. I brush my hips against his ass. I undo his buckle. I dip my hand into his jeans, touching the thin trail of hair peppering his navel.

The fabric on his back strains against the ripple of his muscles. “You don’t have to do this…” he rasps out, his voice guttural.

“I want to,” I say, and I mean it.

“It’s okay if you’re not ready.”

“Shhh.” I kiss the side of his neck, his messy locks soft as silk on my lips, his skin hot and salty. “I want to… We don’t have to go all the way, but I want to be with you tonight. Let me.”

Zander shifts in my arms but doesn’t turn, his hands clamping the edge of the dresser, his breathing heavy.

I pull his zipper down. His erection is now evident, pushing against his jeans. Thick and impressive. I felt it before, in New York. And it was both terrifying and wonderful, and ever since that moment we shared the morning after I told him about my pregnancy and Rhys, I’ve been wondering what he would feel like inside me. Will it hurt? Will I enjoy it? Is he a gentle or a rough lover? No, he doesn’t seem like the gentle kind. Somewhere there, beneath his facade of calmness, resides a wild animal. An animal that only comes out when he’s on stage. Or maybe in bed. Only one way to find out.

And tonight I’m particularly curious.

“Tell me if I’m doing something wrong,” I murmur wrapping my fingers around his length and dragging his jeans down to make more room.

He shudders and a low rumble works its way up his throat. “Oh fuck. No. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with your hands on me, baby.”

I draw a slow, careful stroke. “Does it feel all right?”

“Y-yes.” He thrusts his hips forward, just a little, and I repeat the motion. He responds with a grunt and a shiver runs down my belly and curls into a tight, throbbing knot between my thighs.

I’ve forgotten how to touch a man without instructions and this—the freedom to do as I please—makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever been.

“Do you like it faster?”

“Yes.” His head lolls to the side and I playfully nip at his shoulder.

He moves his hips again and I move along with him, our bodies undulating to the slow, invisible beat.

“God, what are you doing, Drew?” His voice is all broken up.

“Shhhh.” I tighten my grip on his length, my strokes hard and rapid now, my own body hot. There’s something building in me, something growing. It’s that thirst, demanding to be quenched.

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