Move With Me #4
"Fast learner." Her hand resumed its course, unhurried and sure. "My body is so needy right now. I'm soaked and I'm buzzing and I'm throbbing and I want you so, so bad it almost hurts."
I brought her hand up and pressed my lips to her knuckles. "Tell me what you want."
She was quiet for a moment. Not hesitant; I was already learning the difference between Vera's hesitations and Vera's considerations. This was the latter. She was choosing her words with the care she brought to everything that mattered to her.
"There's something I've thought about," she said. "For a long time."
"Tell me."
"I want your hand." She didn't look away. "On my throat."
I went still.
"Not hard," she said quickly. "I don't need—I don't want it rough. I just want—" She paused, searching. "The feeling of it. Your hand there. You being that close. Knowing you could, and knowing you won't." Her eyes held mine. "Does that make sense?"
It made complete sense. It also required me to take one careful breath before I answered.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"I've been sure about it for longer than I've known you existed." The corner of her mouth curved. "That's how fantasies work."
"And if it's too much—"
"Parachute." She said it gently but clearly, like she understood why I needed to hear it one more time. "I know, Petra. I trust you." Her fingers found my jaw. "That's the whole point. I trust you, and that's why I'm asking."
Warmth flooded my veins. She trusted me.
That was all I needed to hear.
"Okay," I said.
Her breath went quiet.
"Lie back."
She settled against the pillow, her hair spreading out, and watched me move over her with those enormous dark eyes.
I took my time. I kissed her throat first, both sides, slow and open-mouthed, feeling her pulse racing under my lips, and let her feel the drag of my teeth at the curve of her neck until she was making small, helpless sounds and her hips were pushing up to find me.
"Petra—"
"I know." I brought two fingers down and stroked through her, and she was soaked, slick and swollen and trembling, and the sound she made at that first contact nearly undid me again. I worked her slowly, circling her clit without pressure, watching her face. "You're so wet."
"I told you," she managed. "I've been—god—I've been thinking about this since—"
"Since noon," I said.
She laughed, breathless. "Eight-fifteen."
I slid two fingers inside her tight heat and felt her clench immediately around them, her whole body drawing me in, and I stayed still for a moment, just letting her feel it, watching her chest rise and fall.
"Ready?" I asked.
"For the—" She swallowed. "Yes. Please."
I brought my free hand up.
I set it against her throat the way she'd asked for: palm curved to the shape of her neck, thumb resting against her jaw, fingers loose along the other side. No pressure. Nothing close to pressure. Just the weight of my hand and the warmth of it and the simple, undeniable fact of it being there.
She stopped breathing for one second.
Then she exhaled, long and shaking, and her whole body went soft under me like it hadn't before, all the held tension releasing at once, like she'd been carrying something monumentally heavy she'd finally been allowed to put down.
"Okay?" I murmured.
"Yes." Her voice had gone somewhere lower, somewhere quieter. "Don't—don't stop."
"I've got you," I said. "I'm not going to stop."
I began to move my fingers inside her.
She arched immediately, a needy roll of her hips, her hands finding my forearm.
Not gripping, just resting there, the lightest possible contact, like she needed to feel that it was connected to me.
I started slow, deep and curling, finding the spot that made her breath fracture, and when I felt her clench around me, I pressed into it.
"Oh—" Her head pressed back into the pillow. "Petra—"
"Stay with me," I said. "Eyes open."
She opened them.
Dark and blown and wet at the corners. Looking directly at me with an expression that had nothing held back, just Vera stripped down to something essential and true, and the sight of it made me drip with desire.
"Good," I said. "Just like that."
I kept my hand exactly where it was—steady, light, present—and worked her with my fingers, reading her body the way I'd been learning to read it all afternoon: the hitch in her breath when I crooked just right, the way her thighs trembled when I found the angle she needed, the small desperate sounds climbing higher in her throat that I could feel vibrating faintly against my palm.
She swallowed. I felt it under my hand.
She made a sound at the sensation and her fingers tightened on my forearm.
"I can feel your pulse," I said quietly.
"I know." She was barely breathing. "I can feel you feeling it."
I pressed my thumb gently against her jaw, the smallest possible increase of contact, and watched her eyes flutter.
"Don't close them."
They opened again. Found my gaze. Held.
I curled my fingers and pressed and her hips surged up and she made a sound that was almost a word and almost my name and entirely neither.
I kept that exact angle, that exact pressure, and felt her start to build—the clench and release around my fingers, her thighs beginning to shake, her breath coming in fragments that were losing their shape.
"Petra. God, I'm going to—"
"I know."
"Don't stop—please—don't stop—"
"I've got you," I said, and meant it in all the ways it could mean. "I'm right here. Come for me, baby."
She came with her eyes open and locked on mine, my hand at her throat and my fingers inside her, a wave that rolled through her whole body from her chest down, her back arching off the bed, her thighs clamping around my wrist, my name leaving her lips in a long, shaking exhale that emptied her completely.