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His nose grazes the side of my neck, and I shudder abreath.
Becausehell.
I don’t know if Wes can fix what’s swirling inside me, but I’m terrified to let himtry.
“Is this what you want?” His voice is barely audible, but his lips brush the shell of myear.
As if in answer, my hands reach for hisshirt.
His mouth trails down my jaw, my neck. I pull myself toward him until I’m nearly off the counter, his hips pressing against mycenter.
He pulls back an inch so I can look in those heavy blueeyes.
No. I don’t want this, and I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. It’s been the day from hell, and Wes’s touch, his attention, is the best possiblebalm.
I look frantically between his gaze and his mouth as if one of them holds the answer I’m lookingfor.
Maybe they bothdo.
I want him to kiss me the way he did at the party but with no one watching. I want to pour all of myself intohim.
“Yes,” Iwhisper.
His fingers brush me through the thin fabric. I’m wet, I know it without hearing his tightcurse.
His touch slips under the fabric, and I hiccup a breath as my fingers find his biceps, diggingin.
I tilt my face up, needing him, needing his lips on mine, but he evadesme.
I’d expected to find comfort in his touch, but it’s the opposite. His fingers slide up over my clit, tracing maddeningcircles.
Then he presses a finger insideme.
My lips find his neck, and I moan against the hot skin of his throat, the heavy beat of hispulse.
“It’s not enough,” Imurmur.
I want him harder,faster.
His fingers stop. I pray for their return, but it doesn’tcome.
Instead, Wes yanks up the hem of my skirt with an impatience that steals mybreath.
I’d meant that I needed release, but he read it as something else. Andnow…
He bends down, pressing his lips to the inside of mythigh.
Oh myGod.
All I can feel is the brush of Wes’s blunt fingers, tracing a path toward where I’m dying a slowdeath.
I’m hot all over, and when he shifts, pulling my panties aside and grazing me with his thumb, the buzzing inside me is replaced by a roaringfire.
I arch against his touch, panting encouragement. His hair glints in thelights.
Like Wes himself, each touch contains a thousand subtle variations I’d need to stay perfectly quiet, perfectly still to experience. But my hips snap toward him. He doesn’t seem to mind as his fingers work in slow circles, every few strokes dipping down for more of the wetness between mythighs.
An hour ago, I was hurt and humiliated. Now, I’m twisting my fingers in his thick hair as his mouth traces a slow, scorching path up myskin.
