Page 69 of Echo: Line
We move together. I peel her shirt off carefully, mindful of her injuries. She hisses slightly when the fabric pulls across the scrape, but then her hands are at my belt and the pain is forgotten.
My own shirt hits the floor. Her fingers trace the bruises on my ribs with careful precision. Like she's memorizing each one. Cataloging damage and survival in equal measure.
"Does it hurt?" she asks.
"Not enough to stop." I capture her mouth again. Deeper this time. Tasting her. Learning her. "Nothing could make me stop."
She responds by unfastening my belt. The metal clinks loud in the quiet room. Then her hands are inside my waistband and coherent thought becomes difficult.
I walk her backward until her legs hit the bed. She sits, looks up at me with those eyes that see too much. Then her hands hook in my waistband and pull me closer.
"Delaney." Her name comes out strained.
"Yeah?" Her fingers trace the line of my hipbone. Teasing. Testing.
"You're going to kill me."
"Not the plan." She smiles. Actually smiles. In the middle of everything we've been through today, she finds humor. "The plan is to make you feel very, very alive."
Her hands work my zipper down. Slowly. Deliberately. Every brush of her fingers sends heat straight through me. When she finally pushes my pants down my hips, I have to brace myself against the bed frame.
"Your turn," I manage.
She leans back, watching me with eyes that have gone dark with passion. Waiting. I hook my fingers in the waistband of her pants. Slide them down inch by inch, revealing skin I've been wanting to touch since we left that mining structure. Her thighs are strong, muscles defined from the running and fighting. A bruise blooms purple on her left hip where she went down during extraction.
I kiss it. Can't help myself. She gasps.
"Alex—"
"Shh." I work the pants down the rest of the way, toss them aside. She's still wearing a bra, plain black, practical. Nothing about it should be sexy but the way it shapes her makes my mouth go dry.
I trace the edge of the fabric with one finger. Her breath hitches. "This too," I say.
She reaches back, unhooks it, lets it fall. And then she's bare from the waist up and I forget how to breathe.
She's not soft. There's definition in her arms, her shoulders, her abdomen. Evidence of the training she's been putting in. But there are curves too. The swell of her breasts, fuller than I remember. Nipples already tight in the cool air. The dip of her waist before it flares to her hips.
I reach out. Cup one breast in my palm, feel the weight of it. Her skin is warm. Soft despite the strength underneath. She arches into my touch, a small sound escaping her throat.
"You're killing me," I tell her.
"Good." Her hands go to my boxers. "Then we're even."
She pushes them down. I'm already hard, have been since she first touched me. When her hand wraps around me, skin on skin, my vision blurs.
"Delaney." Her name is prayer and warning.
"Yeah?" She strokes once. Twice. Learning what makes me groan.
"If you keep doing that, this will be over before it starts."
"Can't have that." But she doesn't let go. Just slows her pace. Torturous. Perfect.
I reach between us, hook my fingers in the last barrier between us. Her underwear is simple cotton, nothing fancy. I slide it down her legs, watching her face as I expose her completely.
When we're finally bare, I let myself look. Really look. Her waist curves inward, then flows to the flare of her hips. Smooth skin interrupted by purple-yellow bruises from the extraction. Her thighs are strong, toned from the training, marked with scrapes from today's fight. Between them the evidence of her arousal glistens. My mouth goes dry.
"Alex." My name is rough in her throat. Need and permission wrapped together.
