Page 158 of Their Arrangement
In relief.
“You’re cramping.”
Still no answer. Just the slightest nod.
My fingers moved in slow, steady circles. I felt the tension in her abdomen, the way her breath caught with each pass. She was trying not to lean into it. Not to admit what it did to her.
I stepped closer.
Brushed her hair back behind her shoulder. Let my handtrail down the back of her neck. Let her feel how easy it would be for me to claim her.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I kept my hand on her stomach. Soft. Firm. Gentle.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not turned on,” I murmured. “You think I don’t know what a woman feels like when her body is at war with itself?”
She trembled.
“It’s not weakness,” I said. “It’s fire. Pressure. Heat without release.”
I moved behind her. Pressed my chest lightly to her back. Her spine arched on instinct.
I let my hand drift lower. Not to penetrate. Not to take. Just to soothe.
The flat of my palm pressed between her thighs. Through the fabric. Slow. Careful.
She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to. I didn’t speak. Didn’t ask permission. I just moved my hand. Upward pressure. Gentle friction. Not fast. Not dirty. Just enough to make her bite her lip.
“Let me help,” I said quietly. “No blood. No shame. Just this.”
Her head tilted back. Her hips shifted. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t have to. Her body gave it to me. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
Her body shifted, barely—just enough to part her thighs beneath the fabric of that skirt. Just enough to invite my hand to stay right where it was.
She was so warm there.
So fucking soft.
And trembling.
Not because she was afraid.
Because I was the one touching her now.
Because Wolfe lit the fuse, but I was the one who would hold her through the fire.
I slid my hand between her legs, cupped her through the silk. Pressed upward with just enough pressure to make her exhale.
“I’m not going to take anything from you,” I murmured against the back of her neck. “Not like this. Not tonight.”
She nodded—barely—and I felt it. The way her body sagged against me. The tiniest surrender. Her guard crumpling around the edges.
I moved slow. Deliberate. Circles. Pressure. No rush. No shame. Just her thighs flexing and hips shifting as the tension began to unravel.
“You’re so damn wound up,” I whispered. “Can’t even breathe, can you?”
A soft, stuttering breath left her lips.
