Page 87 of Price of Angels

When he was vulnerable too.

“You don’t like to be watched.”

“No.”

He ducked his hand inside her panties, closed his hand on warm, damp skin. “What if it’s me watching you?” He stroked her, and allowed himself a glimpse of his hand down in her jeans, the muscles of her stomach quivering beneath his forearm. The wetness was building against the pads of his fingers, and he found her slick entrance, pressed just the tip of his forefinger inside. She hadn’t lied before, about being small and tight. She was both, and her skin was hot and incredibly slippery.

Patience, he told himself. He could wait a little while, until she was ready.

“It’s not as bad,” she whispered. Then she reached for him. “But, Michael–”

He caught her hand and laid it down against her chest. His finger reached deeply inside her, sinking to the knuckle in her wet heat.

She gasped.

“Look at me.” He felt short of breath himself, and forced his lungs to slow. “Watch me, and know it’s me, and let it happen.”

She groaned, her face twisted with something like despair. But her eyes stayed on his face, even as she began to turn scarlet, the blush washing across her face, her throat, the wedge of exposed stomach. Shame. Arousal. Some combination of the two.

He treated her like the most sensitive, delicate instrument, alternating deep thrusts of his finger with the gentlest touches of his thumb. Women were more complex than men, he’d learned through the years. The club groupies might howl for the slamming and the pawing, but it was this that brought them to life: the precise, careful dancing of his hand against and inside them.

“It’s not supposed to be a bad thing,” he whispered to her, leaning low so he could feel her rapid breath against his face. “It’s okay to want it. Reach for it, honey.”

He kissed her, and felt her lift against his hand, digging her heels into the sofa, struggling for release. He gave her the rhythm she wanted, working her with his hand, and his tongue plunged into her mouth.

She came with a gentle, sighing, pleading sound. He loved how breathy and feminine it was. Her sex clamped tight around his fingers, strong contractions of her inner muscles as the pleasure gripped her.

“I want you,” she said when he broke the kiss. “Michael, please.”

It had never been said to him like that. It had been, “Hey there, stud,” and, “You wanna have a little fun?” and, “I kinda have a thing for that whole strong silent type act.” It had been empty words spoken by empty girls looking to keep the numbness at bay for a little while, and never anything more. It had never been this sweet, melting, earnest pleading. It had never reached into him and twisted his stomach and sent the breath rushing out of him.

Michael caught her up in his arms and took them down to the floor, on the plush shag carpet, and covered her with his body.

Naked, he remembered, she liked him naked. He reared back, rising up on his knees to pull his shirt over his head, and he watched her hands fumbling at the zipper of the sweatshirt as she sought to undress. He had to stand to get the jeans off, the fucking things. And by then, she’d worked her own down her hips and she was watching him with undisguised admiration as she reached to unclasp her bra.

He was on her again, and she was hot and silken against his bare skin, and her mouth opened against his kiss, legs opening to cradle his hips.

Patience could only go so far. He couldn’t tease her and touch her in all the ways he wanted to. He had to have her.

One strong surge of his hips, and then they were together, and he was inside the hot, wet center of her. Only then could he pull back, take a breath, push down the frantic need.

He had an idea.

Wrapping his arms around her, Michael rolled, so he lay on his back.

Holly gasped. “What are you doing?” She lifted her head to look at him, her hair falling across her face, the shock in her eyes hilarious…and terribly sweet.

The nervousness in her told him this was the right thing to do. This would be good for her.

“Sit up,” he said. “You can do the riding this time.”

“I can’t.” The response came tumbling out of her before she could think the words. It was true: she couldn’t. There was no way.

He gave her one of his small, twitching smiles. “Yeah you can.”

“But I…” She ducked her head, the heat rising in her cheeks as shame and embarrassment engulfed her. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Sweetheart.” The low, gentle note of his voice dragged her eyes back to his face. “Yeah you do. You get started, and your body knows what it wants.”

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