Page 58 of Atlas
Still kissing me, he slips one hand up between my thighs, not inside, just exploring. And I realise I’m shaking.
He pulls back an inch. “Too much?”
“No,” I whisper. “I just . . . I’ve never felt like this before.”
His forehead rests against mine. “Good. I want to ruin you for every other man.”
I laugh, breathless, nervous, and wrap my arms around his neck to pull him closer. “You already have.”
His mouth is back on mine in seconds, and this time, there’s nothing held back. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, all heat and wanting, and I match it, surprising myself. Surprisinghim, too, judging by the low sound he makes in his throat when I tug his shirt higher.
His hands roam, rough and warm and reverent. Up my legs. Under my dress. Across my thighs. It’s like he’s memorising the shape of me.
“You’re still shaking,” he says against my lips.
“I know.”
His thumb brushes the inside of my thigh, just shy of where I need it. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
His hand stills. “Then tell me what youdowant.”
“I want you to keep touching me,” I whisper, every nerve ending sparking. “But I don’t know how to ask for it right.”
“You just did,” he says, his voice a low rumble vibrating through me.
He slides my underwear down slowly, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. I lift my hips to help him, my cheeks flushing as the cool air kisses my skin. But he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t stare.
He groans.
Like seeing me is a relief. A reward.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “Fucking beautiful.”
I shiver, my legs falling wider without meaning to. He takes the cue, trailing his fingertips along my opening, feather-light at first. I inhale sharply, my head falling back.
He watches me. Every reaction. Every tiny gasp.
And when he finally slides one finger inside, my body clenches around it like it’s been waiting for him, like itknowshim.
“God, Rue . . .”
He kisses me while he moves his hand in slow, steady strokes that build heat in my belly. And when his thumb finds that sweet, aching spot at the top, I jolt, clutching at his arms like I’m falling.
He doesn’t stop, adjusting until he has me squirming, gasping, panting into his mouth.
When I come, it’s not quiet. It’s full-body. Overwhelming. I cry out against his throat, and he holds me through it, murmuring, “That’s it, baby. That’s my girl.”
When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me like I just did something impossible.
I reach for him. “Don’t stop.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
He curses softly and kisses me hard. He steps back only long enough to shove his jeans down to his thighs, and my breath catches when I see him.
