Chapter 7 #2
I force myself to stop. Just for a second. My chest drags for air, and she blinks up at me, dazed, lips swollen, eyes wide with something I’ve never seen on her before. Pride hits low in my gut at the sight. I did that. I put that look there.
I press my forehead to hers, my hands braced at either side of her head, fighting the instinct to lose myself completely. Her breath fans over my mouth, shaky and uneven, and I know I’m hanging by a thread.
“Clara,” I whisper, more warning than word.
“I want this.”
Her words are all I need. “In that case, put your hands against the headboard and enjoy.” I reach for my wallet and pull out the small package. her gaze flicks to the movement, then back to my face. I drop the small square beside the pillow, close enough she can see it.
Her throat works as she swallows, a faint tremor running through her. I brush my knuckles along her jaw, tracing the edge of her pulse until it steadies.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “We’ll take our time.”
Her breath stutters. My hand trails down her neck, over the curve of her breast, pausing long enough for her nipple to tighten beneath my thumb.
Her words spill from her lips in a stream of breathless, half-formed sounds that catch at the edges of meaning.
Each one lands against my skin like a pulse, keeping time with my hands as they chart her body.
Every freckle, every subtle shift in texture, every small tremor beneath my palm becomes a point on the map I’m committing to memory.
Her skin is warm silk, damp where heat gathers.
The faint scent of her—something clean, something womanly—rises as I lower my mouth to her stomach.
I trace the soft hollow of her navel with my tongue, teasing the tender skin until her laughter breaks into a gasp.
The sound sends a vibration through my chest that I feel in places I shouldn’t.
Her muscles tighten when I slide lower. The fine lace barrier scrapes lightly against my knuckles as I let my fingertips drift there, testing. Her hips shift, her breath stutters, and the sound she makes—small, helpless, perfect—shoots through me.
When I strip the fabric away, she draws in a sharp breath, her chest rising in a quick, involuntary arc.
The room seems to contract around us, heat and air thick with the smell of desire and her skin’s faint sweetness.
I settle between her thighs, close enough to feel her warmth, and look up.
Her eyes are half-closed, lashes trembling, mouth parted.
Her breath hitches when my hands slide up her ribs.
Her heartbeat flutters under my palm like something wild trying to get free.
When I bend to her chest, her skin tastes faintly of salt and heat, the kind of flavor that ruins restraint.
She grips my shoulders, nails grazing, her voice dissolving into sounds that barely reach language.
I shift my mouth from one side to the other, following each shiver, each small intake of breath. The soft drag of my tongue leaves her arching, restless. Her fingers clutch at my hair, urging me closer, guiding without words.
The air around us changes, heavier now, charged. My lips trail lower, and I feel her anticipation as if it’s my own—a current that runs between us. She trembles when I pause, hovering. The scent of her fills my lungs, heady and intoxicating.
“Jeremy…”
My name comes out like a sigh and a plea all at once. I lift my head, let her see the hunger in my eyes. “I told you,” I murmur, my voice rough from wanting, “I’m just getting started.”
Her answering sound is soft but wrecked, the kind that makes my pulse hammer.
Every breath she takes feels synced with mine now.
Her body speaks in tremors and heat, and all I can think about is how easily she answers to touch.
The world shrinks to skin, breath, and the taste of her name on my tongue.
Her skin glows in the low light, flushed from the inside out.
I hover there, breathing her in, fighting the instinct to devour.
The pulse at her throat beats fast enough for both of us.
When I lower my head again, it isn’t just hunger driving me, its reverence, a need to know every way she comes undone.
The faint tremor in her stomach tells me where to go next. I trace it with the tip of my tongue, slow, deliberate, until her hand finds the back of my head. Her fingers flex, gentle at first, then urgent, the tremor in her voice matching the one in her body.
Her scent is thick in the air now. It’s warm, salty-sweet, and layered with something faintly floral that clings to her hair and skin.
Every breath tastes like her. Every sound she makes cuts through me.
I draw another moan from her throat and feel it vibrate against my lips, a low hum that goes straight to my core.
She moves without thought, a ripple of motion beneath me.
The way her hips roll, seeking more contact, more friction, makes my control falter.
I grip her thighs, not to restrain but to steady us both.
Her skin is hot beneath my palms, smooth where muscle shifts and tightens.
I can feel every stuttered heartbeat through my fingertips.
Her head falls back against the pillow, hair spilling around her like ribbons.
Her lips part on a breath that sounds like surrender.
The sight nearly undoes me. I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh, tasting the faint mix of heat and salt, and she gasps.
The sound is sharp, unguarded, utterly hers, and it ramps up my libido tenfold.
When I look up again, her eyes meet mine. Wide, dazed, dark with want.
I move back up her body, trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses until I reach her chest again. Her heartbeat drums against my mouth, and I breathe her in, anchoring myself there. Her fingers find my face, trace the line of my jaw, and for a second the world narrows to that single point of contact.
The urge to claim her hits hard. It’s not a thought but a pull, low and primal, like gravity. She feels it too. Her breath catches when I look at her, and she reaches for me, guiding me closer until our mouths are inches apart.
I grab the condom and tear it open with my teeth, the faint rip of foil loud in the quiet room.
She watches, lips parted, eyes fixed on my hand as I roll it on in one smooth motion.
Her breath hitches, a soft, involuntary sound that tightens everything inside me.
The look she gives me is pure hunger wrapped in wonder, as if she’s discovering something new and can’t look away.
I brace myself with one hand beside her head and guide my cock with the other, pressing the tip to her entrance.
She’s hot and slick beneath me, trembling with need.
I tease her first, letting the broad head slide against her until her hips rise to meet me, silent invitation written in every movement.
When I finally push in—just an inch—her gasp turns into a broken moan, and I groan with her.
She’s impossibly tight, her body gripping mine like she was made for this.
I make eye contact. Her pupils have almost swallowed the irises and for a moment I think she’s panicking. Then she gives me a brief nod.
She wants this.
I cock my hips and surge forward. The moment I want to withdraw, I catch the pained expression on her face.
What the…
I still, pulsating inside of her, as realization dawns on me. “Are you a virgin?”
She lets out a shuddering breath, inhales before giving me a tight smile. “I think we can safely say I was, Weston.”
Goddamnit. This woman is going to be the death of me.