Page 62 of The Final Faceoff
His hands move again, just slightly, like he’s testing something. Testing me.
I swallow. “You should?—”
His fingers press, dragging over my shoulder blades, working at the tension there, and whatever I was about to say dies in my throat.
Because it’s not fine.
Not at all.
His touch is firm, the heat of his hands sinking into my skin, undoing knots I didn’t even realize were there. Each slow drag of his thumbs sends a ripple of warmth down my spine, pooling low in my belly, thick and insistent. My breath catches, my nipples tightening in response to the steady pressure of his hands.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this. Shouldn’t be reacting like this.
But my shirt is off. No bra. His hands are so damn close. If he just shifted a little lower, if his palms brushed my sides, if his thumbs traced down my ribs, he’d find out exactly how hard my body is betraying me.
I squeeze my thighs together, but it does nothing to ease the pulse between them.
Stupid libido. Stupid body. Stupid, stupid need.
I want to sink into it, let him push me forward, press me into the bed, let his hands slide under me, cup my breasts, knead them with the same firm intent he’s using on my shoulders. I want him to grip my hips, pull me against him, let me feel how much he wants this too. My skin is hot, tight, and I know if I let this continue, I won’t be able to stop myself.
I need to get out of here.
Now.
I push up suddenly, mumbling something incoherent as I grab my shirt and all but flee to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. My hands tremble as I press my forehead against the wood, eyes squeezing shut.
I need relief.
My fingers trail down my stomach, dipping into the waistband of my shorts before I stop myself. No. Not here. Not with him in the next room.
I whirl around, heading straight for my nightstand.
My vibrator is right where I left it, and I grab it with shaking fingers, sinking onto my bed. My mind betrays me instantly, conjuring the image of his hands on me instead, those strong, capable fingers pinching my nipples, rolling them between his calloused fingertips, teasing, tugging. My back arches, my legs spread, and I let out a shaky breath as I press the toy between my thighs, imagining it’s his mouth instead, hot and open, kissing down my stomach, his tongue flicking out to taste me?—
A strangled moan slips past my lips.
God.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
But I can’t stop.
I don’t want to.
I sink back into the pillows, my legs spreading wider as the vibrator hums against me, but it’s not enough. Not even close.
I want him.
I want his hands between my thighs, not this impersonal piece of silicone. I want his fingers teasing me, sliding through the slick heat gathering there, pressing inside, stretching me open while his other hand palms my breast, squeezing, rolling my nipple between his fingers until I’m squirming beneath him.
I imagine the weight of his body over mine, his broad shoulders blocking out the light as he looks down at me, dark eyes burning with hunger. He’d take his time, wouldn’t he? He’d drag his mouth down my stomach, over my hip bones, pressing teasing kisses against the inside of my thighs, making me beg before he finally?—
My breath stutters as I press the vibrator harder against my clit, my hips lifting into the sensation.
God, I want his mouth on me. I want him kissing my cunt, slow and filthy, sucking my clit into his mouth, groaning against me like he can’t get enough. I want to tangle my fingers in his hair, feel the soft strands slipping through my fingers as I hold him there, as I grind against his tongue, as he licks into me, his mouth and fingers working in tandem to unravel me completely.
I bet he’d love it—how wet I am, how easy I’d fall apart for him. I can almost hear his voice, low and rough, telling me how good I taste, how sweet I am, how badly he wants to be inside me.
