Page 44 of The Hearts We Fumble
I release her wrists, trailing my hands lower, adjusting her legs until they spread on either side of me. I guide them around my waist, locking them behind me.
“Zane?” she breathes, her voice tight.
“That’s not all, firecracker,” I murmur. “There’s one more thing…”
I roll my hips against her, slow and deliberate, letting her feel every inch of the tension coiling between us.
Her breath hitches.
The only thing separating us is a layer of denim and the thin cotton of her shorts. It’s nothing. Not when I can still feel the heat of her against me.
“What?” she whispers, her hands now fisting the sheets.
“Do you feel that?” I rock against her again, just enough to make her suck in a sharp breath.
She nods once, stiffly, her body trembling beneath mine.
My lips curl into a slow, satisfied smirk. “Do you feel how fuckin’ hard I am just from being this close to you? From watching those perfect tits bounce beneath your shirt while I have you pinned under me?”
Her breath comes out shakier this time. “Zane…”
“That’s right, baby. It’s me.” I thrust again, slow, teasing, pushing her right to the edge of whatever line we’ve been dancing around for years.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
I know I shouldn’t.
It almost feels surreal—like I’m watching from above, outside of myself, living out the kind of moment I’ve only let myself have in dreams.
But she’s here. She’s real. And fuck if I’m stopping now.
I drop my hand, dragging it down the side of her body, my thumb skimming beneath the curve of her breast. She shivers at my touch, her body arching, chasing the friction.
“Before you ever say anything negative about your body again,” I murmur, my lips hovering just over hers, “before you ever try to tell me I wouldn’t want you, I want you to remember this.”
I roll my hips against hers, making sure she feels me everywhere.
“Remember how hard I am just from having you beneath me. From thinking about you. From wanting you.”
Her breath stutters.
And for once, Wyatt doesn’t have a single comeback.
Her lashes flutter, heavy with the weight of whatever this is between us, but I don’t stop. My grip tightens around her thigh, holding her against me like she’s mine to keep.
She arches, her body instinctively pressing into me, her soft curves molding against every hard inch of mine. A sharp breath leaves her lips when I dip lower, dragging my face between her breasts, inhaling the sweet, intoxicating scent of her skin.
I need to stop. I know I do. But fuck, she’s making it impossible.
Every little sound she makes, every shift of her hips beneath me, every breathless sigh has my restraint hanging by a thread. I can already feel how warm she is against me, how easily she’d let me slide my hand between us, past the waistband of her shorts, until my palm finds her soaked and aching.
The thought alone nearly destroys me.
Because once I do, I won’t stop. I won’t be able to.
I’ll want to sink to my knees, spread her open, and devour her until she’s trembling beneath me, moaning my name like she was made to.
Just imagining it—hell, just hearing the way her breath hitches—has me fighting to hold on.
