Page 77 of Refrain

I drag on her. Greedy. Hungry. I take everything she has to give. I take, and I take—every last drop. Every last gasp. My pants feel like a fucking vise, but I still have enough shred of control to pull back before it’s too late.

Withdrawing from her is like surfacing from underwater. I’m gasping. She’s panting, still riding the high of whatever she feels in the aftermath of…this. Her eyes find mine, watching as I stagger back against the table and throw my hands out to brace my weight against it.

It’s hard to come down when I can taste her. It’s hard to come, period. My jeans are too tight. My fingers clench, aching to rub one off. The bathroom’s too fucking far away though. Her scent is too damn much. I almost crave the humiliation of coming in my pants. Right here. Right now.

Whether intentionally or not, she won’t let me. Her legs tremble as she brings them together. Her hands claw at the countertop as if she’s worried one ragged breath might be enough to pitch her off it. Her eyes slide down my face, right to the front of my jeans. She can see how fucking pathetic I am.

One of her hands flies to her mouth, and she chews on the broken nails. “You said your father never hurt you.” The words spill from her throat, broken and hoarse. She’s afraid I lied to her.

“He didn’t.” I clench my jaw against the inevitable question that flashes across her face.

But?

“But…I don’t want to be like him.”

She blinks, her eyes widening. “You’re afraid that you’d hurt someone.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m afraid that I’denjoyhurting someone.”

She climbs down from the counter on trembling legs and has to clutch the end of it with one hand to keep her balance.

I expect her to run. She staggers forward—toward the kitchen table. To me. Her pale knees strike the tiled floor as she lowers herself down, just out of my reach. Her head is barely visible above the rim of the table.

“Can…can I touch you?” Her fingers flutter against the floor while she eyes the waistband of my jeans.

It’s like she’s teasing me on purpose.

“I just told you why—”

“I’m asking for permission.” She reaches out for me with one hand. Her tongue flits across her bottom lip. Pink. Wet. Glistening.

The sight makes my dick throb. I’m harder than I’ve ever fucking been, and it’s nearly impossible to think straight.

“If…if you want me to stop, I will.”

I don’t say a damn thing. My hips jerk and my thighs spread apart, just enough for her to slip in between while I snatch thegun from my pocket and shove it away. She rises slowly, using her fingers to grab my zipper. It’s like she’s peeling my fucking soul open. I try to bite back the sounds that threaten to tear from my throat. I hold them back. I hold my goddamn breath, too, as she takes her sweet time, undoing the fastenings bit by bit.

I suck in air when she finally gets them undone, and I spring forward against my boxers. She takes me in with a single sweep of those yellow eyes. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I know from her own sordid little story time that she’s been hurt. A lot. By many different men. Am I bigger than they were? Smaller? Less threatening? I don’t know how long she drinks me in.

There are tears in her eyes when she finally looks up. Tears of pain? Relief? Exhaustion? Her lips tremble as she fights to suck in air and release it all on a single question. “Can…can I touch you?”

My answer rips from my throat. “Yes.”Fuck yes.

Any control I had is gone. I’m already lifting my hips from the table when she moves her hands to the waistband of my jeans. She slowly tugs them down, carefully, unwrapping me like a fucking present.

It’s torture. It’s drawn out. It’s for her.

Telling myself that while my teeth skewer my lower lip makes it bearable. Barely, but I’m still in control. By a thread. By a fucking hair trigger. But I don’t reach for her.

I let her ease my jeans all the way down to my ankles. I bite my lip harder when she starts on my boxers. The head of my dick is already leaking precum by the time she gets me bare. It’s pathetic. I wait for her to laugh or maybe make some joke about innocence.

She stares instead. She inhales raggedly, shifting her weight so that she’s balanced on the tops of her knees. “Can I…”

“Yes.”

I breathe out as she takes me in the palm of her hand. There’s no gentleness. No hesitation. She grips me firmly. It’s like sheknows my dick inside and out—better than I do. When she starts to pump her fist…

I see light. Colors. Reds. Greens. Yellow. Fucking yellow. She knows how hard. How fast. It’s like she’s in my goddamn head, getting off on how well she matches the gut instinct I don’t even have the nerve to say out loud. I just groan, my head rocking back against my shoulders. My gaze flutters up to the ceiling atfirst,but then it drifts right back down. She’s staring up at me, gauging my reaction. She pumps faster. Harder.Shit.

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