Chapter 5 #2
I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of the sweatpants. Her skin was scorching hot. I slid my fingers down, through the curls of hair, until I cupped her through her panties.
She gasped, her back arching off the bench, her head falling back.
"Leo!"
"Stay still," I commanded, though my own voice was shaking. "Let me feel you."
She was soaked. Even through the cotton, I could feel the heat and the wetness. The scent was overpowering now—pure, unadulterated arousal. It made my vision swim with gold.
I needed to taste her. But I couldn't. Not yet.
I rubbed my thumb over her clit through the fabric. Just once. A slow, deliberate circle.
Her hips jerked. A sob tore out of her throat.
"Good girl," I praised, watching her face. "Look at you. So wet for me. And I haven't even kissed you yet."
"Kiss me," she demanded, her eyes finding mine again. They were glazed, desperate. "Kiss me, Leo."
"No," I said. "Not until you let go."
I slipped my fingers under the elastic of her panties.
Flesh on flesh.
It was electric. The moment my skin touched her slick heat, a shockwave rattled through the room. The lights overhead actually flickered—shifter energy disturbing the grid.
I didn't enter her. I just cupped her, my palm molding to her mound, my fingers sliding through the slickness.
She wasn't just ready; she was desperate. She was swollen, weeping for me.
I started to move. Slow. Rhythmic. Using the heel of my hand to apply pressure while my fingers teased the entrance she was so desperate to have filled.
"Relax," I ordered, feeling her thighs clamp down on my wrist. "Open your legs, Maya. Give it to me."
She whimpered, but she obeyed. She let her legs fall open wider, exposing herself completely to my touch.
"That's it," I whispered, leaning in to press my forehead against hers. "That's the surrender. Stop fighting it."
I picked up the pace. I found the rhythm that made her breath hitch. I focused entirely on her pleasure, turning off my own needs, channeling everything into the movement of my hand.
She was unraveling. I could feel it. The tension in her body was winding tighter and tighter, coiling like a spring.
"I can't... I can't think," she gasped, her hands clutching my shirt, bunching the fabric.
"Don't think," I growled. "Feel. Listen to the rhythm. It's just tempo, Maya. Faster. Harder."
I moved my thumb directly onto her clit, applying firm, relentless pressure.
She shattered.
It wasn't a slow build. It was an explosion. She screamed my name, her body bowing off the bench, her inner muscles clamping down on my fingers in a rhythmic spasm that I could feel all the way to my soul.
She shook apart in my hands.
I held her through it, keeping the pressure steady until the last wave subsided, until she collapsed back against the bench, limp and boneless.
Silence filled the room. The only sound was her jagged breathing and the hum of the refrigerator upstairs.
I slowly withdrew my hand. I wiped my fingers on my jeans—a crude gesture, but I couldn't stand the thought of washing her scent off yet.
I stood up, stepping back to give her space.
She lay there for a moment, eyes closed, chest heaving. She looked wrecked. She looked beautiful.
Then, slowly, her eyes opened.
They weren't fearful anymore. They were clear. The anxiety was gone, burned away by the dopamine and the endorphins.
She looked at me, and a slow, terrifying smile spread across her lips.
"I think," she whispered, her voice raspy, "I'm starting to understand the appeal of being bad."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Good," I said, my voice tight. "Now go take a shower. We have studying to do."
I turned and walked toward the stairs, forcing myself not to run.
I had proven my point. I had taught her the lesson.
But as I walked up into the kitchen, my hands shaking, I knew I had made a fatal error.
I had tasted her. And now, the hunger wasn't just a gnawing ache. It was a roar.
I was going to lose this game. I was going to lose it hard.
Later that evening.
The library was quiet. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm, orange glow over the leather books and the heavy oak table.
We were ostensibly studying. Maya had her sheet music spread out. I had a playbook open.
Neither of us had turned a page in twenty minutes.
I was watching her.
She was curled up in the oversized armchair, her feet tucked under her, wearing a pair of thick wool socks. She was humming softly—a piece of music I didn't recognize. It wasn't the rigid, perfect humming from before. It was loose. It wandered.
She looked up and caught me staring.
Usually, she would blush and look away.
This time, she didn't. She held my gaze. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. There was a challenge there. A new confidence.
"You keep looking at me," she said.
"I'm keeping an eye on you," I corrected.
"You're staring," she said. She uncurled her legs and stood up, stretching. Her shirt rode up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her waist. I tracked the movement like a hawk.
She walked over to the table where I was sitting. She didn't stop at the edge. She came around the side, stepping into my personal space.
She leaned her hip against the table, looking down at me.
"Thank you," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For today. In the gym."
I stiffened. "It was just a lesson."
"It worked," she said. She reached out and—boldly, recklessly—picked up my hand.
My hand dwarfed hers. My knuckles were scarred; hers were calloused from the strings.
She turned my hand over, palm up. She traced the lines of my palm with her index finger.
"I played for an hour after I showered," she said, her voice full of wonder. "I didn't look at the sheet music once. I just... played. It sounded messy. It sounded angry. It sounded like you."
"I sound angry?"
"You sound intense," she corrected. She looked at me. "Why did you stop?"
"Stop what?"
"In the gym. You stopped. You didn't... finish."
My jaw tightened. "Because that wasn't part of the deal, Maya. I'm your teacher. Not your boyfriend."
"Is that the only reason?"
"Yes," I lied.
She studied me. She saw right through me.
"I think you're scared," she whispered. "I think you're scared that if you actually kiss me, you won't be able to be the cold, controlled Captain anymore."
She leaned down. Her hair fell forward, brushing against my cheek. She smelled like my soap now. It was possessive and confusing.
She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the center of my palm.
"Goodnight, Leo," she whispered against my skin.
She pulled back and walked out of the room, leaving me sitting there with my hand burning and my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
She was right. I was terrified.
Because I knew exactly what would happen if I kissed her.
I wouldn't just be the Captain anymore. I would be her Mate. And once that switch was flipped, there was no going back.
I looked at my palm where her lips had been.
I closed my hand into a fist, trapping the sensation.
Two days until the recital. Two days until she was free of the deal.
I had to survive two more days without claiming her.
I looked at the fire.
I wasn't going to make it.