Page 45 of Mile High Ruin

Fuck, she’s so responsive like this.

My hand slides lower, moving from the curve of her waist across the soft plane of her stomach before settling at the hem of her skirt, and the moment my fingers disappear beneath the fabric I feel her entire body change against me, not pulling away, not resisting, but becoming suddenly more aware of every inch of space between us.

Her thighs part by the smallest amount, almost unconsciously, and that tiny movement is enough to send a hard pulse of need through me because it is not practiced or calculated; it is simply her body answering mine before either of us has said what this has become.

I pause there, my hand warm against the inside of her thigh, and lift my head from her neck so I can see her face.

“Sloane.”

Her eyes meet mine. There’s heat in them, but there’s also something more uncertain beneath that, and that’s the only reason I don’t keep going immediately.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

For a second she only looks at me, her breathing shallow, her fingers still twisted in the front of my shirt.

Then she shakes her head. “No.”

The word is quiet. Certain enough.

I slide my hand higher. Her breath catches when my fingers brush over the outside of her underwear, and the reaction is so immediate that I have to clench my jaw to keep from doing everything at once.

Instead, I touch her slowly.

Once. Then again.

The fabric is already damp beneath my fingers.

I look at her. She notices where my attention has gone and closes her eyes for half a second as though embarrassed by how obvious her body has made this.

My hand settles more securely against her thigh while I keep touching her, slow enough that she has time to react to every movement, and with each pass I feel the tension in her shift from restraint into need. She leans back against the counter, her fingers tightening around my sleeve.

I move the fabric aside. The first touch of my fingers directly against her makes her inhale so sharply that I stop again, not because she asked me to, but because I want to know whether that sound came from surprise or something else.

Her eyes open. “Don’t stop.”

That’s all I need.

I run one finger slowly through her wetness, then over her clit, and her whole body shivers in response. She looks away.

I lean closer. “Look at me.”

Her gaze returns to mine.

I touch her again, more deliberately this time. “Sloane.”

She shudders when I say her name, like she hates the effect it has on both of us.

I kiss her while my fingers keep moving, swallowing the small sounds that escape her as the rhythm between us changes, becoming less tentative and more certain because she is no longer pretending she wants distance.

The galley is quiet around us. The cabin beyond it is mostly dark. There’s something reckless about being here, something I should probably understand as a warning, but all I can think about is the way she’s pressing closer, the way her body softens every time my fingers circle her clit, the way her composure keeps breaking in small, beautiful pieces.

She grips my shoulders. “I’m going to⁠—”

“I know.”

Her eyes flash at the interruption.

I almost smile. Then I keep touching her until the tension finally snaps.