Page 29 of Handful

He undid my jeans. Pulled them off with my help, my hips lifting. Then he was between my legs, his mouth on the inside of my thigh, and I stopped thinking about anything except the heat of his breath and the slow, deliberate way he kissed from my knee, up my thigh, and then moved inward.

The first touch of his tongue made me arch off the bed. His stubble rasped the inside of my thigh, his breath hot against me. He held my hips steady with both hands and took his time — long, slow strokes that paid attention, circling where I needed him without rushing, reading every sound I made. Paying attention. His tongue found my clit and held there, circling in tight, steady passes, adjusting when I moved, following when I tried to chase it.

“Tyler —” My hand was in his hair, gripping, and I felt him smile against me.

He slid two fingers inside me. No announcement. Just read the movement I made and did it, his mouth not stopping. I felt the curl of them and my hips drove forward and I stopped trying to be quiet.

The bastard. He was good at this. For the first time in my life, a man was between my legs and his attention was fully on me and my pleasure. Not on his own skill. Not on the proof of what he could do. On me. What I was doing. What I needed.

“Tyler,” I called as I came, both hands fisted in his hair, holding him in place.

He kissed his way back up my body. I pulled him to me and kissed the taste of myself off his mouth, which made him groan. Then I reached between us and took him in my hand. He groaned again. I liked that, so I did it again, slow, watching what it did to his face, until his jaw went tight and his hand closed over mine to stop me.

“I want this in me,” I said. “Now.”

He reached for the bedside drawer. Condom. Quick, practiced — another part of this where his experience was an asset. He settled between my thighs and waited, his forehead against mine, his breath uneven, his body a line of heat above me.

I lifted my hips and guided him inside me.

The first push was slow. Full. I gasped and he stopped immediately, his whole body going rigid with the effort of holding still.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Don’t stop.”

He moved — slow and deep, finding the rhythm the way he’d found everything else tonight: paying attention, adjusting, reading. His face was close to mine, his eyes open.

Normally, I would close my eyes and lose myself in the movement but I made myself look at Tyler. I wanted to remember every detail. The strain of his arms where he held himself above me. His hair damp and sticking to his temples. I looked down to where his body joined mine, to the sight of him moving inside me, then back up to his face. The desire in his eyes.

This wasn’t the man I’d imagined in the private moments I’d let myself imagine this, the efficient one who knew the moves and ran them for his own release. I’d known I was wrong the second he asked me what I wanted.

I shifted my hips, pulling him deeper. His hand found my hip and tightened.

I could feel the restraint in the pacing — the deliberate check when his hips drove forward and he smoothed back to the rhythm, the long strokes giving me everything and then pulling back.

I pressed my hand flat against his chest and felt his heart going fast. “Tyler.”

“Yeah?” Unsteady.

“You don’t have to hold back.”

He went still. Weight on his forearms, eyes on mine — a man processing something. Then he moved again, and the careful rhythm gave way. Each thrust was deeper. Harder. Faster. He was still paying attention — still adjusting when I shifted, still reading the sounds I made, but the check was gone. His forehead dropped back to mine, his hand gripped the headboard, and I watched his face come apart. The careful expression gone. Jaw tight, lips parted, his breath coming in fragments that matched the rhythm of his hips. Just him, looking at me, unable to stop.

“Austen,” he whispered as he thrust.

I knew what kind of women had come through this room. I’d watched Tanya recalibrate on the porch and understood the math. But the way my name sounded in his mouth right now — none of them had been given that. I was certain of it.

The pressure built from somewhere low and spread outward, tightening with every push of his hips. I stopped trying to watch him. I stopped trying to think. My nails were in his back. I could feel the full length of him moving inside me, his rhythm going ragged as he chased his own edge.

I came with my face pressed against his jaw, my whole body clenching around him. He followed, a sound torn out of him, his arm hauling me hard against him as he buried himself deep and let go.

We stayed like that. His weight on me, held up on his elbows but not pulling away. His breathing slowing against my throat. My hands on his back, feeling the muscles settle.

After a while he eased out and away, just long enough to deal with the condom, before pulling me into his side.

“Austen,” he said again. Quieter this time.

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to remember this for the rest of my life.”