Page 85 of All Our Nevers

Ever since that day on the Cape, when she’d bested me in our game of wills outside the shower, I’ve imagined this. And it’s so, so much better than even my filthiest dreams.

Amelia Mercado is sex personified.

I’m rock hard and there’s no hiding it. Her eyes lock on the front of my boxer briefs.

“Like the view, Owen?”

“You know I do,” I rumble low in my chest.

“Really?” she asks as her hands start to trail up her supple stomach, then higher, until she’s clasping her own breasts, teasing her nipples, shameless and confident.

I’m white-knuckling the headboard, control pushed to its limits. “Jesus, Amelia. Get over here. Let me touch you. Please.”

“No,” she smirks, fingers meandering in lazy circles over her nipples as they tighten into stiff buds. “Tonight, I touch, you watch.”

“Fuck,” I hiss, painfully hard, desperate for relief that isn’t coming—at least not yet.

She takes her time, letting the pleasure of her own ministrations fall across her face. One hand remains on her breast while the other moves lower, dipping under the edge of her underwear and drawing out slow circles of pleasure there.

“Amelia, baby. Please.” I’m not above begging. Not at a time like this. “Take them off. I need to see you.”

“What, these?” she teases, trailing her fingers over the lacy edge of her thong.

“Yes.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Slowly, she lowers the lace to the floor, baring herself entirely.

She’s graceful, almost serpentine, as she stands upright again, continuing to trace nimble fingertips across her body, guiding my eyes exactly where she wants them. Her deep red nails trail up over her hips, her waist, her ribs, circling her breasts once before dragging down over the taut plane of her stomach. One hand travels lower still and she closes her eyes with the pleasure of it, no trace of self-consciousness as her fingers work their slow circles again.

I would give anything to replace her fingers with my own. I’d give my apartment. My career. My first born child. Fuck that kid—I don’t want kids anyway. I just want Amelia.

When her eyes flutter closed, head tilting back in sinful abandon, it’s all I can do not to come in my pants.

“Amelia,” I growl. It’s all I can say. There are no other words. My brain is a jumbled mess of desire and restraint. The headboard groans under my grip but I can’t loosen it—it’s my only tether to this mortal coil. I’m all raw desperation as I beg, “Please, gorgeous. I need you. Lia, please.”

The words have her slowing her motions, cracking open her eyes with a knowing glint. Then finally, she makes her way onto the bed, crawling over me and caging me in a prison of my deepest desire.

“Did you just call me Lia?” she asks, and her grin is triumph.

“I’ll call you whatever you want. Just let me touch you.”

Her naked body straddles me, fingers spinning paths between the tattoos on my chest. “Well, you have been good. Maybe you deserve a reward.”

“Yes,” I breathe, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.

Gently, she tucks her fingertips beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs, pulling them down my legs and freeing me entirely. I’m rigid against my stomach—so close to the edge without her even touching me yet.

She takes her time, trailing those red nails gently over my thighs, my stomach, circling closer in to where I need her but never quite reaching it. Every time she seems prepared to finally touch me, she pulls away again. I twitch in anticipation.

“God, you drive me fucking crazy.”

The smile on her lips says that that’s exactly what she’s going for.

“What is it you want, Owen?” she asks, lowering herself closer and closer to me. “Do you want my mouth on your dick?”

I can feel her breath caressing me as I choke out a desperate, “Yes.”