His head lifts, that mischievous grin lighting up his face, and my heart stutters. There’s something so boyish in it, so him, it almost undoes me.
“Is that why your panties were all wet?”
“Oh my God,” I groan, hiding my face, though the heat crawling up my neck is impossible to hide.
He catches my chin, coaxing me to look at him, his smile softening. Then he brushes his lips over mine, feather-light, then over my cheek, as if he can’t help but taste every inch of me. “Did you touch yourself, thinking about me doing this to you?” His voice is a low growl that vibrates against my skin.
Then he shifts his hips, his cock brushing against my entrance, the friction a slow, torturous tease that steals the breath from my lungs.
I lift toward him, instinctively chasing the contact, but he moves with me, denying me what I need most. “Jaxon,” I growl, half-plea, half-warning.
He grins, his voice dipping into that dangerous whisper that seems to find its way straight to my pulse. “Tell me, and I’ll give you what you want.”
“When I was in the shower earlier…”
His eyes darken, a flash of surprise followed by something raw and hungry. “Aww, babe,” he rasps, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “You needed to take the edge off? Maybe I should’ve taken you back to bed this morning.”
The way he says it—half regret, half promise—sends another wave of heat through me. But I find my voice, the spark of mischief returning. “But the anticipation,” I murmur, tilting my head, “That was the best kind of foreplay.”
He freezes, watching me, his breathing slowing, deepening.
“I was thinking about you,” I continue softly, drawing out each word, savoring the way his pupils dilate. “The water was hot, steam everywhere. My skin was slick, my body already aching, so I slipped my hand between my legs…” I pause, biting back a smile as his jaw flexes. “I closed my eyes and imagined it was you touching me. Then I took the shower handle and turned it to pulse. God, Jax, it was so good.”
A sound escapes him, low and guttural, as his body tenses above mine.
“Baby,” he says hoarsely, his voice roughened by need. “I thought the whole point of us was so you didn’t have to finish yourself.”
My heart twists, a tender ache blooming in my chest. “It is,” I whisper.
He studies me for a long moment, and I see something flicker there—something softer than lust. Then he leans in, his tone steady, commanding, but wrapped in a tenderness that reaches deeper than I expect. “Then let me take care of you.”
The words hit me. This is supposed to be about lessons, about play and pleasure—not about someone seeing me like this, wanting to care for me.
“Keep your hands right here, okay?” He lifts my wrists, pressing them gently to the pillow beside my head. His gaze holds mine—strong, steady, reassuring. “Let me give you what you need. You, my sweet Row…” His voice softens, a low promise. “Just need to relax.”
My chest tightens, emotion catching in my throat. I nod, though my heart is beating too fast to make that sound easy. “What if I can’t?” I whisper. “What if I wasn’t built right, to…you know. To climax while a guy’s inside me.”
For a moment, everything goes still. His eyes soften, the teasing gone. And I realize this—this—is what makes him dangerous to my heart. Not his body. Not his talent. But the way he listens. The way he looks at me like there’s nothing wrong with the way I’m built.
He brushes the back of his knuckles over my cheek, the touch feather light. His eyes are half closed, the look in them so full of quiet determination. “There is nothing wrong with you. Don’t ever think that. It’s the guys you were with. They never gave you the care you needed or deserved. I’m going to change that.”
“But—”
He grins, like he’s working to lighten my worries. “We’ll take our time. All night if we have to. Until it feels right. Now, relax for me.”
I do as he says, filling my lungs, letting it out slowly. The air between us hums with anticipation, but under it all is safety, a feeling I haven’t known in far too long. When he touches me again, it’s with purpose and care, guiding rather than taking. I feel every heartbeat, every tremor of restraint in him.
“I want you perfectly still,” he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle. “Just let me take care of you.”
Something about surrendering like this—about trusting him enough to let go—sends heat through me that has nothing to do with lust. It’s the pleasure of being seen, of being wanted without question.
“That’s it,” he breathes, approval threaded through the command.
Heat races through me, and I take another deep breath.
His jaw ripples as he offers me an inch, and I whimper as I instantly clench around him. “That’s good,” I murmur, resisting the urge to rise up, force him to give me more.
He angles his body, dips inside me a little more, and I groan, and turn my head to the side.