Page 112 of None Of Your Business

He drops to his knees between my legs, and I almost moan at the sight of it.

The shift in height puts his face level with my waist. His large hands slide up my calves, smoothing over the bare skin.

My heart feels like it's going to beat out of my chest.

Suddenly, the reality of where we are catches up to me. My dress feels heavy, gathered around my hips.

Seeing him there, a sudden wave of self-consciousness hits me. My body isn’t simple. I’m bruises and loose joints, and right now I feel too exposed.

Sensing my hesitation, he cups my face in his hands. “We can stop. Just say the word.”

God, no.

“I don’t want to stop,” I whisper.

His thumbs sweep over my cheekbones, tilting my head until I’m forced to meet his gaze.

“Come back to me. You’re in your head,” he murmurs, his thumbs continuing to stroke my skin. “Leave it outside the door. There is nothing in this room right now except you and me.”

“I’m…” I swallow. “I’m not built like other women, Hudson. I’m—”

“You’re beautiful,” he says, cutting off the self-deprecation before it can take root. “Every single inch of you.”

He slides his hands down my neck, sweeping over my collarbones to the hidden zipper at the back of my dress. He peels it down my shoulders until it pools at my waist, exposing my breasts and the pale curve of my ribs.

His gaze follows the fabric, but his eyes show no shock. Only a hunger that makes my skin prickle with goosebumps.

He presses a slow, lingering kiss right to the hollow of my throat, over the leaping pulse that hasn’t slowed all night.

“Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.”

Heat floods my core when he takes my nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking as my body trembles.

He guides me back onto the sheets, and before I can even think about the ache in my lower back or the angle of my hips, he grabs an extra pillow, gently lifts my hips, and slides it under my pelvis.

“Better?”

I nod frantically. “Yes.”

He takes his time kissing the inside of my right knee before moving to my left. His thumbs trace the line of my inner thighs, working out the tiny knots of tension in my muscles as he works his way up.

Resting his palm flat against my stomach, I know he feels the frantic rise and fall of my breathing, and the tremor running beneath the surface.

“Breathe,” he instructs softly.

He parts my thighs gently, his large hands supporting the outsides of my knees, lifting them just enough so there’s zero tension in my joints

His breath hits my skin a second before his mouth does.

His tongue meets my clit, and a sharp gasp tears from my throat.

The flat of his tongue sweeps upward.

I cry out as he swirls his tongue around my clit again, slower this time, applying a steady, torturous pressure.

Using his fingers to part me, he licks in agonizingly slow strokes, learning the exact rhythm that makes my breath catch. He doesn’t rush. Every movement of his mouth is measured, patient, designed to build a fire from the inside out.

My hands tighten in his hair, my knuckles turning white. I feel the familiar, terrifying rise of sensation—the heat coiling tight and sharp in the base of my belly. But with it comes that lingering beat of fear, the voice telling me I’m taking too long, that my body is too complicated, that I’m demanding too much effort.