Chapter 25 Wes #2
Hayes’s voice thundered in the background—I trust you—followed by every worst-case scenario my brain could conjure. Phantom pain flared low, a warning shot across my nerves. My pulse pounded in my ears.
She was standing there anyway. Choosing me anyway.
“Clara,” I said, and the sound of her name in that small room felt like something I should be on my knees for.
I stepped closer, slow, giving myself time to back out and failing spectacularly at taking it.
“You know if we do this, it doesn’t go back in the box, right?
There’s no version where we pretend this is some clinical experiment in my sex life. I am not that guy.”
“I am very clear on what kind of guy you are,” she said, a flicker of heat flashing in her eyes. “That’s why I asked you.”
I stopped in front of her, close enough now that I could feel the warmth coming off her skin, close enough that one more step would put my chest within reach of her hands.
“This is probably,” I said slowly, “the worst idea I have ever had.”
Her mouth curved, soft and sure. “Mine too.”
My quiet laugh came out hoarse. I let my gaze drag over her one more time, because there was no universe where I was not going to burn this into my memory.
Every line, every curve, every inch of her—brave enough to stand there and say I want you when I had done absolutely nothing to deserve that kind of gift.
My fear was still here. My loyalty to Hayes was still here. The noise in my head was still here.
The desire was louder.
I lifted my hand, fingers trembling just slightly, and touched a strand of damp hair where it clung to her shoulder, letting it slide over my knuckles.
“Okay,” I said, the word landing in my gut like a promise. “Yes.”
Her breath caught.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“Yes to you,” I clarified, because if we were going to do this, she deserved every ounce of clarity I had.
“Yes to this. Yes to . . . lessons. Yes to going as slow as I need to and probably faster than I should. Yes to fucking up and laughing about it instead of going back into my cave and pretending I’m already dead. ”
Relief and heat flashed across her face so fast it nearly knocked me over.
“Okay,” she said, voice shaking just a little. “Okay.”
I swallowed, my thumb brushing the damp skin at her shoulder, glasses sliding down my nose as I looked at her like she was the first good decision I’d made in too damn long.
“Then teach me, Duchess,” I murmured. “Show me where we start.”
“Okay,” Clara said slowly, like she was lining something up in her mind. “Then we need rules.”
I huffed out a laugh. “That sounds ominous as hell.”
Her mouth curved, nervous and determined. I still couldn’t believe how confident she was, standing naked in front of me.
“Ground rules,” she corrected. “So you don’t bolt. So I don’t cry. So nobody gets murdered at Thanksgiving.”
“Strong opening,” I muttered.
She ignored me, which I realized was becoming a theme. “Rule one,” she said, lifting a finger. “We do not talk about this to anyone. Not my sisters, not the bros at Nerd Night, definitely not Hayes. This stays between us.”
My stomach clenched at my best friend’s name. “Yeah,” I said roughly. “That one I can get behind.”
“Rule two,” she went on. “Either one of us can call a halt. For any reason. Or no reason. No guilt. No ‘sorry I ruined the mood.’ We just . . . stop.”
The tightness in my chest loosened a notch. “Deal.”
Her eyes flicked over my face, like she was checking for signs I’d spook if she pushed any further. “Rule three is more like . . . a suggestion,” she said. “For tonight, I think we should start with you not touching me.”
Every muscle in my body went to high alert. “That’s a fucked-up suggestion,” I said hoarsely.
Her lips twitched. “You said you were worried about going too fast, about your body freaking out or your brain short-circuiting.” She lifted a shoulder. “So maybe tonight is about your voice. You stay where you are. I listen. You tell me what to do. What you want to see. What you want me to feel.”
Heat punched low and brutal.
“You want me to just stand here and watch you?” My voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel.
Color rose in her cheeks. “I want you to have control without worrying about balance or phantom pain or whether your leg’s going to behave.
You get to stay put. You get to call the shots.
You get to actually see what looking at me does to you.
” Her throat bobbed. “If you hate it, we stop. If it works, then we decide where to go next.”
Control without physical risk. The hottest thing I could imagine and the most terrifying.
My jaw clenched so hard it ached. I could almost feel the line we were standing on—safe on one side, everything else on the other.
My hands itched to touch her, to drag her in, to find out every way this new version of my body could still make her fall apart.
The same hands were already curling into fists at the idea of reaching and somehow failing.
Her eyes softened like she could see the war playing out in real time. “Lesson one,” she said, a faint, crooked smile tugging at her mouth as she planted her hands on her hips. “Just your voice. No touching. No promises beyond that.”
It should not have made me harder. Somehow it did.
I swallowed. “You’re really okay with that?”
“Wes.” She stepped back toward the space by the bed, the lamp glow gilding every line of her bare body. “You have no idea how okay I am with that.”
My control slipped.
“Lesson one,” I repeated, more to myself than her. “You do what I say. I stay over here.”
Her gaze dipped briefly to the obvious problem pressing against my sweats, then back up again, eyes darker now. “Tell me where you want me,” she murmured. “You’re in charge.”
Those were words I hadn’t trusted myself with in months.
I dragged in a breath, forcing my shoulders down, hands loose at my sides. “Stay by the bed,” I said, voice low. “Right where you are.”
She nodded once and planted her feet, chin tipped up, eyes never leaving mine. “Now what?” she asked.
I let my gaze drop, slow and deliberate, to the curve of her breasts, the line of her ribs, the soft slope of her stomach.
“Start at your throat,” I said, the words feeling strange and right in my mouth. “Use your hand. Slow.”
Her fingers flexed against her thigh, then lifted.
She started at the hollow of her throat, a slow drag that made the tendons in her neck flex.
She skimmed over her collarbone, tracing its edge like she was learning herself in a new language, then slid lower to the swell of her breasts.
The touch was barely there, more suggestion than pressure, but her breath hitched like she’d yanked a plug out of a socket.
Goose bumps followed in the wake of her hand.
Her nipples tightened, pebbling under her own palm, and the smallest sound caught in her throat.
I felt every micro-reaction like it was wired into me—the flutter of her stomach, the way her shoulders eased back a fraction, the way her lips parted on a shaky exhale as if she’d surprised herself with how good her own touch could be.
“Do you remember the feel of a woman’s body?” she asked, voice breathy and teasing as her palm slid lower.
My laugh came out wrecked. “I’m having a hard time thinking about anything except you lately,” I admitted. “It’s a real problem.”
She smiled, shaky but pleased, and the sound that slipped out of her—half laugh, half exhale—loosened something that had been cinched tight in my chest.
“Good,” she murmured. “Then this should help.”
She dragged her hand down the center of her chest, over the curve of one breast, thumb brushing across already-tight skin. Her nipples peaked in response.
My mouth went dry. My hands curled into fists to keep from closing the distance between us.
“Slower,” I said, surprised by the rough command in my own voice. “You’re rushing it.”
Her gaze snapped to mine, pupils blown wide. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, and my cock jerked so hard I had to shift my weight.
She followed my words like a script.
“On the bed,” I commanded.
Clara stepped backward until her legs hit the bed. She lowered herself and leaned back on her arms, toes facing me.
“Knees apart.” I licked my lips. “Show me that pretty pussy, Duchess.”
Her breathing changed first.
It went from steady to uneven, chest rising faster, then catching. A faint tremor ran down her arms. Her hips shifted, just a little, chasing her own touch. Her cheeks flushed deeper, a pink that spread down her neck, across her chest as her knees dropped open.
“Eyes on me,” I said without thinking.
They snapped back up immediately.
God help me, I love that look.
“You’re okay?” I asked, because if I didn’t keep some kind of check on myself, I was going to cross the room and wreck every rule we’d just set.
“I’m . . .” Her voice broke on a small sound, half gasp, half sigh. “I’m definitely okay.”
“Drag your fingers lower,” I told her, breath catching.
“Not too fast. Take your time and stay right there.” When she reached her clit, I smiled.
“Less,” I said, my voice rough. “Ease up and just . . . make slow circles.” My cock throbbed as I watched Clara tease her swollen clit. “Yeah. Like that.”
Clara moaned as she touched herself. Her thighs tightened around her hand, and her free hand gripped the bed.
My heart pounded in my throat. I’d done a lot of things with a lot of confidence in my life, but nothing had ever felt quite like this—standing there, fully clothed, while the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen undid herself one breath at a time because I told her to.
My palm itched to touch her. My fingers twitched at my sides.
“Wes,” she whispered, my name frayed at the edges. “Please.”
She didn’t say for what. Didn’t have to. “One finger. Then two.” I watched as Clara’s fingers disappeared inside her. I knew for a fact mine would feel better. My thick fingers would stretch her open in a way she wouldn’t forget.
“Please,” she breathed.
Her begging was my undoing.
My mind flickered through every filthy thing I wanted instead of this distance: my hand replacing hers, my mouth between her thighs, her knees bracketing my hips as she moved over me, testing what my leg could handle while I held her exactly where I wanted her and sank deep.
The line between what I was seeing and what I was imagining blurred so hard I felt dizzy.
Her body tensed, caught between movements, heartbeat visible in the hollow of her throat. Her lips parted on another quiet, choked little sound that went straight through me.
Something in me snapped.
Heat ripped through my body, fast and brutal. My muscles locked, breath stuttering as everything I’d been holding back punched free all at once. My vision went white around the edges.
I came, hard and humiliatingly fast, the sharp, undeniable release slamming into me before I could do a damn thing to stop it.
My hand hit the wall behind me to keep my knees from buckling. My pulse thundered in my ears. Shame and pleasure tangled together in a mess I didn’t have words for.
Across from me, Clara was breathing hard, skin flushed and glowing, her hand still between her thighs, eyes wide and dark as they locked on mine.
I was wrecked. She was wrecked. Every line we’d drawn felt thinner than paper.
And for the first time in a long time, even wrapped in the embarrassment of losing control, I felt something under it that I hadn’t expected.
Alive.
My breathing was a mess, rough and uneven, like I’d just sprinted instead of standing frozen against a wall while she remained on display for me.
The front of my sweats was damp and humiliating, my pride in tatters, but none of it could compete with the sight of her. Clara lay there, knees apart, flushed and soaked, chest lifting in shallow pulls. Every inch of her was soft curves and sharp edges, holy and obscene all at once.
I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. At her thighs. At the slick, unmistakable evidence of what I’d just done to her without laying a single hand on her.
Something in her gaze shifted as she watched me—taking in my wrecked breathing, the death grip I had on the doorframe, the way my hips had jerked just once when I lost it. Her lips curved, slow and dangerous, like she’d just figured out the answer to a question she hadn’t wanted to ask out loud.
She tilted her head, eyes dark and soft and a little wicked.
“Did you want a taste?” she asked.