Page 73 of Slapshot Baby

When I lift my head, she pulls her hand away and wipes it on my discarded shirt without breaking eye contact then grins.

The move is so casually ruthless it almost makes me laugh.

I wash my hands and stomach in the bathroom, wipe them clean then walk into the room.

Her eyes are still bright. Triumphant.

She thinks she's won something.

"Point made?" I ask.

"Point made."

"Good. My turn."

Her expression flickers. "We're even."

"We're not even close."

I don't tell her to lie down. I don't give her an exit route to argue about.

I hook my fingers into the waistband of her jeans and pull her toward me, moving us both until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She sits. I kneel.

I'm between her legs, pulling her jeans down her thighs and tossing them behind me.

Her underwear is damp, the cotton dark where the wetness has soaked through. The sight sends a fresh wave of heat through my groin even though I just came.

I slide my hand up her inner thigh, feeling the muscles tremble under my palm. My fingers trace the edge of her underwear, following the crease where her thigh meets her hip.

I pull the cotton aside with my thumb. She's swollen, slick, glistening. The sight makes me clench my jaw so hard the muscles ache.

I can feel the heat radiating from her, can smell her arousal. My cock twitches against my thigh.

One finger traces her folds. Light. Barely a touch. She sucks in a breath through her teeth and her hips lift, chasing contact I'm not giving her.

"Be patient," I say.

"I don't have patience."

"I know. That's why this is going to take a while."

My finger circles her clit, featherlight. Her thighs fall wider.

I want to bury my face between her legs. I want to taste her until she screams loud enough to alarm the entire house.

The desire is so fierce, but I don't give in to it. Not until she asks me with words and means them.

I slide one finger inside her. She's hot and tight and so wet that my finger meets no resistance. Her internal muscles clench around me immediately, pulling. A sound falls from her mouth.

I curl my finger against the front wall and her entire body bows off the mattress.

I start slow. One finger, deliberate strokes, curling on every withdrawal. My thumb rests against her clit but doesn't move, just sits there, a promise of pressure she has to earn.

Her hips try to set a faster pace. I match my rhythm to hers then slow it down, forcing her body to follow mine instead.

"Kai." Her tone is frustrated, desperate.

A second finger joins the first. She clenches around them, slick and hot.