Page 149 of Saddle and Scent
I watched the stages of recovery wash over her—first the limp satisfaction, then the gathering of will, and finally the stubborn set of her jaw as she shifted upright again.
She didn’t waste time.
She reached for my hand, drew it up to her mouth, and licked her slick from my fingers with a look that dared me to do something about it.
Fuck…
I’m mesmerized, and my cock is even harder.
She was back. And she wanted more.
"Are you sure?" I have to ask, have to give her one more chance to maintain the walls between us. Remind her that she has a choice and we don’t need to go down this route if it’s going to upset her.
"Stop being noble and help me," she snaps, but there's desperation beneath the irritation.
I move slowly, giving her time to change her mind. My hand hovers over her thigh, and I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. "This changes things between us."
"Everything's already changed," she says, and she's right.
When my palm finally makes contact with her thigh, we both inhale sharply. Her skin is silk-soft and fever-hot, slick with perspiration and need. I stroke gently, learning the texture of her, the way she trembles under my touch.
"You're burning up," I murmur, voice rough.
"Feels good," she admits, eyes fluttering closed. "Your hands are cool and possessive."
I trace patterns on her skin, moving slowly higher. Each inch reveals new responses—a hitch in her breathing, a flex of muscle, a soft sound that might be my name.
By the time I reach the junction of her thigh, we're both shaking.
"Look at me," I command softly.
Her eyes open, locked on mine as I continue my exploration.
There's trust there now, mixed with the need. It's headier than any aphrodisiac.
"You're doing so well," I tell her, meaning it. "So strong. So beautiful."
A laugh escapes her, breathless and disbelieving.
"I'm a mess."
"You're perfect." The words come out with too much feeling, but I can't take them back.
Don't want to.
My thumb traces the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and she gasps, hips lifting. The movement brings her closer to my hand, seeking more contact. I like easing her into what she wants, or maybe I’m trying to delay this just a bit longer to make sure it’s not a dream.
That I’m not hallucinating.
"Please," she says again, and this time I don't make her wait.
I touch her with reverent care, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her eyes roll back and her hands clutch at the sheets. She's responsive in a way that makes my chest tight, abandoned to sensation, trusting me to guide her through.
"That's it," I told her, voice hoarse, as she started to spiral again, her breath hitching with each trembling rise. "Let me take care of you." If she thought surrender was a one-time gift, she had another thing coming—her body was desperate to crest again, and I wanted to be the one to show her how good it could get. I let my fingers move with a little more confidence this time, less afraid to overwhelm her, more sure of what she needed from me. Her hips pressed into my hand, greedy and restless, but I kept my pace, refusing to let her dictate the rhythm. This was about her giving up control, about learning how to trust someone else with her need.
She reached for my other hand, found it on the bedspread, and grabbed hold like she was pulling me under with her. The shock of her grip shot through me—her palm was hot and insistent, her fingers squeezing mine with the kind of raw force that should have hurt, but just made everything more intense. I squeezed back, an anchor in her storm, holding on tight as she started to climb.
The air between us thickened, charged with a tension that buzzed through my bones. Her eyes flicked between my face and our joined hands, disbelief and hunger warring in her gaze. I knew exactly how she felt—like if she let go, she'd shatter apart. Maybe that was what she wanted. Maybe that was what I wanted, too.
