Page 93 of Show Me

“Fu-u-ck, Ruby.” The words are ground out as his lips trail along my jawline. His voice sounds wrecked already, and we’ve barely started. The need in it makes me ache, a deep pulse between my legs that won’t stop.

The sensation of his mouth gliding along my skin makes my toes curl on either side of his thighs. His hands grip my hips, stilling me as I’ve been moving, small, hungry rolls against him. He jerks at the contact, hips twitching upward before he catches himself. I feel the restraint in his fingers, pressing into my hipbones hard enough to mark.

I’m not a virgin, but damn, nothing has ever been like this. The guys I’ve been with were quick to the trigger. And we weren’t exposed to each other under the blaring light of a ceiling fan. This feels more intense. More intimate.

Don’t. I swallow hard. This is not intimate. This is a physical release. An enjoyment of each other’s bodies. That’s it.

But then his mouth finds the spot below my ear, the one that makes my spine curve, and he stays there. Not rushing. Learning me. His breath hot and unsteady against my skin. His hands trembling where they hold my waist.

The couch creaks when he shifts forward, closing the space I left between us earlier. There’s nothing careful about it now, nothing measured, just movement.

His hand slides down my back, then back up again, not tentative but not claiming either-like he’s mapping me, like he needs to know exactly where he is. I push up from the couch, not breaking the kiss, and he follows, hands finding my waist again as I step back.

Once. Twice. My shoulders hit the wall. “Fuck.” The contact pulls a sharp breath from me, and his head dips, mouth finding mine again before I can think about it.

His hands settle at my hips, holding me there long enough for the moment to land. For both of us to feel it. The line. Crossed. This is it. There’s no turning back. I reach for him, pulling him closer instead of stepping away.

That’s all it takes. His grip shifts, firmer now, more certain, as he turns us toward the hallway without breaking contact.

The house is quiet around us. The kitchen. The table. The space where we said this would stay simple. Gone.

The hallway light catches across his shoulder as we move past it. The bedroom door comes into view, and he pauses long enough to look at me.

Not asking. Checking. I don’t hesitate. I pull him the rest of the way in.

Chapter Forty-Six

Xavier

The bedroom door clicks shut behind us, and I let go of her waist to see what she does.

She doesn’t move away. She stands there in the half-dark, breathing through her mouth, watching me. Waiting.

I reach past her and turn the lamp on. Not because I need to see her, though I do, but because I want to see her reaction to being seen. The light catches her throat first, the way she swallows, the way her hand twitches at her side as she might cover herself.

“Come here.”

She steps forward, and I meet her halfway, my hands finding her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft spots above her jeans. She makes a small, involuntary sound, and I feel it in my chest. I don’t say anything. I pull her closer and kiss her again, slower this time, tasting her sweetness, the warmth of her mouth, the way she opens for me.

My hands move to her shirt, fingers catching the hem. I pause. Not asking, she already said yes, but giving her the space to stop me. She doesn’t. She lifts her arms.

I pull it over her head and drop it somewhere behind me. She’s not wearing a bra, just skin, and I have to stop myself from looking too long, from touching too much too fast. I settle for one hand at her waist, the other sliding up her spine, counting vertebrae, feeling her shiver under my palm.

“Still okay?”

She nods, quick, breathless. “Yeah.”

I walk her backward until her knees hit the bed. She sits, then lies back, and I follow her down, settling between her thighs. The material is rough against my palms when I grip her hips, when I grind down against her to hear the sound she makes. It’s not a word. It’s better.

I kiss down her throat, her collarbone, the center of her chest. Her hands find my hair, not guiding, holding on. I stop at her stomach, press my mouth to the soft skin there, and feel her muscles jump. She’s sensitive. I file that away.

My fingers work her jeans open, slide them down her hips. She lifts, helps, and then she’s in nothing but cotton underwear, and I can smell her, want her, have to stop my hands from shaking when I hook my fingers in the waistband and look up at her.

“You good?”

“Yes.” Her voice is rough, barely there. “Don’t stop.”

I pull them off and drop them on the floor. She’s bare now, open, and I force myself to go slow, to kiss the inside of her thigh first, then higher, then the soft skin where her leg meets her hip. She’s wet already, flushed, and I haven’t even touched her where she needs it.