7. SEVEN #2
He pulled my sweater over my head in one motion and went still, staring at me in the simple black bra I’d chosen that morning. His hands stayed at his sides like he was forcing himself to look before he touched.
“You can touch me,” I said.
He did.
His hands closed over my breasts through the lace, thumbs dragging slow and firm across my nipples until my back arched and I pressed into him without meaning to.
“I thought about you all day,” he said, voice low.
“Just today?”
His mouth found my throat. “No.” The word vibrated against my skin.
He unclasped my bra and let it fall. His hands came back immediately—rougher, hungrier.
The contrast between his warm palms and the cool air made me dizzy.
I gripped his shoulders as his mouth moved lower, open and wet, following the curve of my breast until he closed around my nipple and sucked hard.
Every clever thought I had left vanished.
He watched my face while he worked me with his tongue, that same relentless focus he brought to everything. Reading every reaction. Adjusting before I could even ask.
“You’re very pleased with yourself,” I managed.
“Yes.” At least he admitted it.
He switched to the other breast, one big hand splayed across my back to hold me still while the slow, wet drag of his mouth sent heat pooling between my legs. I tangled my fingers in his hair and pulled.
“Bed. Now.”
He straightened. Undressed me with deliberate care—jeans, underwear, each piece set aside without ever looking away from my body.
I got his shirt buttons open, though his patience visibly frayed by the fourth.
When I shoved the fabric off his shoulders he caught my waist and lifted me onto the bed like I weighed nothing.
I landed near the center. He stood at the edge, shirtless, trousers still on, looking at me with raw, starving hunger.
“Take those off,” I said.
He did. Watching Alex Black follow an order shouldn’t have been that satisfying.
He climbed over me, one knee pushing my thighs apart. I reached for him. His hand caught my wrist and pinned it to the mattress.
“Not yet.”
“You’ve been waiting all day.”
“So have I.”
A rough sound left him—half laugh, half groan. Then his mouth crashed back onto mine and his free hand slid between my legs.
I opened for him immediately. He stroked through the wetness already there, spreading it over my clit in firm, steady circles that made my hips lift off the bed.
His eyes never left my face.
“You thought about this on the train?”
The question was quiet and completely unfair. “Yes.”
“What did you think about?”
“You.”
“Not enough. Tell me.”
His fingers pressed harder. The almost-laugh in my throat turned into a gasp.
“I thought about you meeting me at the station,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “Kissing me. Bringing me upstairs. Taking off everything I wore to that interview and fucking me until I forgot why I left.”
His fingers slid inside me—two at once, thick and deep. My body clenched around them and his forehead dropped against mine with a low, broken sound.
“You wore this for me?”
“The underwear? I considered the possibility that Boston might not satisfy every need I had.”
His jaw tightened. He added a third finger, stretching me while his thumb kept working my clit with ruthless precision. Sentences became impossible.
He watched everything—every shaky breath, every helpless roll of my hips.
“Alex—”
“Not yet.”
“I’m not asking you to stop.”
He slowed instead, easing the pressure just enough to keep me right on the edge. I grabbed his forearm, nails digging in.
“Don’t tease me.”
“You were gone for eleven hours.”
“I went to an interview.”
“Felt longer.”
His mouth covered mine before I could answer. He brought the pressure back—firmer, faster—and the pleasure rebuilt sharp and inevitable.
I came hard, his name spilling against his mouth, his fingers still buried inside me. He held me through every pulse, eyes locked on my face, watching me fall apart.
When I could finally breathe again I felt him hard and heavy against my thigh, his whole body wound tight with restraint.
I reached for him. This time he let me.
My hand wrapped around his cock and his eyes slammed shut—this raw, involuntary surrender that sent a fresh wave of heat through me.
“You like being touched,” I murmured, stroking him slowly.
“By you.” The rest of the sentence didn’t need saying.
I worked him with deliberate pressure, learning what made his breathing stutter, what made his hips push forward into my fist. He caught my jaw and kissed me deep and rough.
“Condom,” I whispered.
He reached for the nightstand without pulling away. I took the packet from him, tore it open, and rolled it on myself while he watched with an intensity that made my hands shake.
I lay back and spread my thighs. “Come here.”
He moved over me. The first slow push stole the air from my lungs—thick, stretching, perfect. My body opened around him and I locked my legs around his waist.
“More.”
He drove deeper and the sound I made seemed to snap whatever control he had left. His hand gripped my thigh hard enough to bruise and he changed the angle, each thrust longer, harder, deeper. The bedframe protested beneath us.
His mouth found my neck, breathing ragged against my skin. “I missed this.”
“This?”
“You.”
That single word landed somewhere deep and dangerous.
I cupped his face and forced him to look at me. “I’m here.”
His rhythm faltered. For one raw second everything he was feeling showed on his face—fear, relief, and something so large it didn’t have a name. Then he kissed me like he was drowning and the pace turned desperate.
My nails scored his back. His hand slid under my hips, lifting me into every thrust, holding me exactly where he wanted me. Pleasure built again—heavy, bright, unstoppable.
“Tell me,” he gritted out.
“I’m close—don’t stop—”
His eyes stayed locked on mine. “Come for me.”
I did.
It tore through me hard and deep, my body clamping down around him until his control shattered too. Alex buried his face in my neck and came with a low, broken sound, his weight carefully held above me even as the tremor wracked his body.
For a long time we just breathed.
Then he rolled onto his side and pulled me against his chest. His fingers moved slowly through my hair—absent, almost tender, the kind of touch that wasn’t trying to start anything. Just a man holding on to something he was terrified of losing.
“You’re staying tonight,” he said.
I smiled against his skin. “Ask me properly.”
His hand stilled. “Stay, please.”
I lifted my head. He looked less guarded than he had at the station. Less certain, too.
I kissed him softly. “Yeah.”
He relaxed into the pillow. I traced one of the faint scars across his chest with my fingertip—a question for another night.
“Show me the job description tomorrow.”
“And tonight?”
His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure.
“Tonight you stay.”
I let him say it.
Because this time, he’d asked first.