Chapter 4
four
SOPHIE
I slowly trace my fingertips down Mike’s chest, following the ridge of very impressive muscle that disappears into his waistband. Heat radiates through the thin cotton, and I’m dying to feel his skin against my palms without any barrier between us.
“Can I take these off?” The words escape breathlessly, nothing like the clinical tone I use with patients.
Mike’s grin sends heat pooling low in my belly. “I’ll do you one better than that, Sophie.”
He rolls away and stands in one fluid motion that showcases every muscle in his back. His hands move to his jeans, and I prop myself on my elbows, mesmerized. Button, zipper, pants down. His shirt follows, pulled overhead in a way that makes his abs flex.
Black boxer briefs. That’s all that’s left.
And they do nothing to hide how much he wants this.
How much he wants me.
“That was efficient,” I say, trying for casual, landing closer to worship.
He shrugs. “Gives me more time to please you.”
“What if I wanted to undress you torturously slowly?” I say, my boldness surprising me, although maybe it’s easier to be brave when he’s looking at me like I’m something precious instead of something convenient. “What if that gives me pleasure?”
Genuine contrition flashes across his face. “Shit, I didn’t think about that.” He actually starts backing away. “I can put my clothes back?—”
Laughter erupts from somewhere deep inside me, loosening the knot in my chest. He’s serious, and sincere, and totally ridiculous. He’s actually inching toward his discarded jeans like he’ll get dressed again just to let me have my way with him.
“Come here.” I grab his arm and tug.
He comes willingly, settling over me with careful precision, weight balanced on his forearms. The first brush of his lips against mine is gentle, testing, but when my hands find his shoulders—God, the warmth of him, the solidness—he deepens the kiss with a groan that vibrates through my chest.
My hands map the terrain of his body like I’m looking for treasure. The smooth expanse of his back. The valley of his spine. The curve where back meets ass, firm and perfect under my palms. Every touch sends data racing through my nervous system: warm, solid, male, here, wanting me.
His weight should feel oppressive—I’ve never liked being pinned down, never liked feeling trapped—but this is different. This is Mike’s careful control, the way he holds himself just close enough that I feel sheltered but not crushed. Protected but not imprisoned.
“Where else can I touch you?” His lips graze my ear. “How else can I make you come?”
My brain short-circuits. He’s already given me one earth-shattering orgasm, already proven he’s more attentive than any man I’ve been with, and now he’s offering more. Most guys would be fumbling with their boxers by now, not asking permission to extend the foreplay.
But there’s something I’ve always wanted, something I’ve been too embarrassed to ask for with my limited roster of one-night stands. The way Mike watches me—intent and patient and genuinely fascinated—makes me brave enough to voice it.
“I want to be on top.” Heat floods my face, but I push through. “I’ve never really… I mean, I have, but not… properly.”
His whole face transforms, lighting up like I’ve offered him season tickets to his favorite team. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His enthusiasm bolsters my confidence. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to really be in control.”
Mike presses a tender kiss to my forehead before rolling onto his back. The loss of his weight leaves me bereft, but then I watch him reach for his jeans, fishing out his wallet. The condom goes on the nightstand, and he lies back, hands coming to rest on my hips as I shift to straddle him.
The position change shifts everything. I’m above him now, looking down at his face, and the view is…
intoxicating isn’t strong enough. Devastating, maybe.
The way his eyes darken as they travel up my body.
The way his fingers flex against my thighs like he’s restraining himself from gripping harder.
“Can I touch your clit while you’re on top?” His thumb traces patterns on my hip bone that scramble my thoughts.
The question stops me cold. “What? But we’re about to have sex. Why would you need to touch me there? Isn’t that just… foreplay?”
Something flashes across his face—frustration, possibly anger—and my stomach plummets. Of course. I’ve ruined it by being too inexperienced, too hesitant to do something that he asked, or too naive about what real sex is supposed to?—
“I’m not angry at you.” His voice cuts through my spiral, firm and sure. “I’m angry at every guy who’s ever made you think your pleasure is optional. Who didn’t pay attention to what you needed. Who didn’t know you deserve to be touched everywhere, every second, for as long as it feels good.”
The words lodge in my throat like shards of glass. A one-night stand is supposed to be simple and physical and primal. Not… this. Not him looking at me like I deserve something more than efficient friction and a perfunctory “was it good for you?”
“I want to touch your clit while I’m inside you.” He repeats, matter-of-factly, without judgment. “I want to make sure you feel good. OK?”
I nod, speech beyond me. This veers dangerously close to emotional territory I’ve marked off-limits, but my body isn’t concerned with my rules. In fact, the rest of my body has staged a protest and is blocking the highway that gets rational thoughts from my brain to anywhere else.
Mike’s fingers slip between us, finding exactly where I need them with the same confident precision he showed earlier. The first touch makes me gasp—still sensitive from before—but in a way that promises rather than overwhelms.
My eyes close, and behind closed lids, images unspool: riding him while he touches me like this, the dual sensation of being filled and stroked, the control of setting my own pace while he?—
“What are you thinking about?” His voice comes out rough, affected. “You just made this sound, and your face…”
When my eyes open, he’s watching me with a smile and a focus that’s so intense and singular and completely devoted to this moment.
“I was thinking about how this would feel if you were inside me.”
The smile that curves his lips should be illegal. “Let’s find out.”
Mike’s thumbs hook under the waistband of his boxer briefs, and I watch, transfixed, as he pushes them down. The fabric slides over his hips, revealing the sharp V of muscle that arrows downward, and then?—
Oh.
My breath catches. I’ve seen naked men before—quick glimpses in dim lighting, hurried moments focused more on destination than journey—but this is… well…
Mike is substantial in every sense of the word.
His cock is thick and hard and somehow both intimidating and perfect. And I gasp when I see a bead of moisture at the tip, evidence of how much this is affecting him too.
“Sophie?” His voice carries gentle concern as he notices my eyes locked onto him. “You OK?”
“You’re…” I search for words that won’t sound ridiculous. Beautiful? Impressive? Everything I didn’t know I was missing? “Really… wow.”
Pink stains his cheekbones, but his grin turns wolfish. “I’m glad you noticed, Soph.”
My laugh surprises us both, a nervous energy finding release. “Kind of hard to miss.”
He grins as he reaches for the condom, movements efficient but unhurried. The wrapper crinkles as he tears it open, and I watch his hands as he pinches the tip and rolls the latex down his length. Even through the barrier, he’s formidable.
“Still want to do this?” He searches my face, ready to stop if I ask him to.
“Yes.” The word comes out breathier than intended. “Definitely yes.”
His hands find my hips, steadying me as I rise on my knees. The anticipation coils tight in my belly as he positions himself, the blunt head pressing against my entrance. One hand stays on my hip while the other slides to the small of my back, supporting without controlling.
“You set the pace,” he murmurs. “However you want it.”
Easy for him to say when every nerve ending screams for more. But I do take it slow, sinking inch by careful inch, letting my body adjust to the stretch. It’s been longer than I want to admit, and the fullness makes me pause when he’s completely inside.
“You OK?” he asks.
“More than.” A laugh escapes me. “Just… give me a second.”
“We’ve got all night,” he says, although the strain in his voice suggests his control has limits.
“It’s about to get better.” He shifts slightly, changing the angle, then brings his thumb back to where we’re joined.
I rock experimentally, and the sensation—full and touched and in control—pulls a sound from my throat I’ve never made before. Because, suddenly, I realize that this is what sex is meant to feel like.
“Oh,” I say, a sound that’s barely a word, and more an exhalation of discovery. “That’s...”
“Good?”
His hands guide without controlling, suggesting rhythm and angle while letting me find what works. And God, what works is… everything. The roll of my hips. The pressure of his thumb. The way he watches me like I’m performing miracles instead of just figuring out how my body operates.
“You look incredible,” he says. “The way you move...”
His words embolden me, making me feel powerful instead of awkward. I’ve never directed my own pleasure like this, never been the one in charge of depth and speed and angle. It’s a revelation. Empowering. Like discovering I’ve had this key the whole time but never knew which lock it opened.
“Can I go faster?”
“God, yes.” His hips buck up slightly, control slipping for just a moment.
The increased pace changes everything. Pleasure coils tighter with each roll of my hips. I’m close—closer than I thought possible, or have ever been before in this position—and the combination of fullness and focused touch threatens to shatter me.
“Mike, I’m?—”
“Let go.”