Page 80 of The Hearts We Fumble
“So soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
A familiar pang of self-consciousness tries to creep in, but it’s short-lived. Zane’s hands worship my body like he wouldn’t trade a single inch of me for anything else. And with every touch, every murmured praise, he’s teaching me to see myself through his eyes.
And damn if I don’t love the way he looks at me.
For as long as I can remember, eating carb-heavy meals came with a side of guilt. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes for days. I’ve always been active yet carried more curves than most girls, but my doctors never raised concerns—so long as I maintained balance. Still, the lingering pressure to be smaller, to take up less space, has never fully faded.
But with Zane, the way his eyes darken with hunger when he looks at me, the way his body responds to mine like I’m the most desirable thing in the world—I’m starting to appreciate the body I’ve been given. Not just in the way I always knew I was beautiful, but in the way I’m beginning to feel it.
His hand slides higher, brushing over the lace of my bra until his fingers graze my hardened nipple. A shiver shoots down my spine, and he grins.
“So sensitive,” he murmurs, like he’s cataloging every little reaction.
I thread my fingers through his hair and tug, guiding his mouth to mine. He groans against my lips, rocking his hips into me, his erection pressing insistently between my thighs.
“You’re teasing me,” I whisper just as he reaches beneath the fabric and flicks open the clasp of my bra, letting my breasts bounce free.
“Goddamn.” His voice is rough, his hands greedy as he palms my chest, kneading my breasts and rolling my nipples between his fingers. He groans when I arch my back, offering him more. “Just a little taste.”
Zane pushes my shirt up, his eyes devouring the sight of me before his mouth descends, tongue flicking over my nipple. The sensation sends a sharp pulse of pleasure through me. My hands slide over his back, my nails digging into the muscles there.
I press a kiss against his temple, breathless. “More.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
His hands tighten around my thighs, spreading me wider as he grinds between them. His fingers slide between my legs, pressing over my panties. Even through the fabric, I know he can feel how soaked I am.
“Look at this,” he mutters, his other hand rubbing the front of his jeans, gripping the hard length there. “You see what you do to me?” he rasps. “I’ve been trying to take my time, enjoy dinner, but fuck, all I want to do is rip your jeans off and bury myself inside you.”
“So do it,” I challenge, a slow smile curving my lips. “Fuck me now. Feed me later.”
His answering groan is pure sin. “Now that’s a deal I can get on board with.”
Zane latches onto my nipple again, sucking hard enough to make my toes curl. My head falls back, my body surrendering to his touch.
His hands slide down, working the button of my jeans, tugging them down my legs until I’m left in nothing but my panties. His heated gaze drops to where his fingers slip beneath the lace, brushing over my clit, and I tremble beneath him.
Bracing my heels on the edge of the counter, I open up for him, silently pleading for more. If he keeps touching me like this, looking at me like he wants to devour me whole, he can have anything he wants.
Then the loud, obnoxious blare of his phone rings from the counter.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Ignore it. I’ll call whoever it is back later.”
His fingers slide lower, teasing my entrance, and my hips buck instinctively.
“Shit, you’re so wet, Wy.” His voice drops, dark and reverent. “Dripping for me.”
My nails dig into his shoulders. “Oh God, please don’t stop.”
The phone finally stops ringing—only for it to start right back up.
Zane curses under his breath. “Fucking hell.”
The call is relentless, vibrating across the counter like it has a personal vendetta against us.
“If you need to answer, it’s okay,” I murmur, breathless.
“No,” he growls, shaking his head. “Nothing else matters right now. Nothing but you and me.”
