“Are you addicted to my touch yet?” I whisper.
She nods, tears in her eyes from the edge of pleasure.
“Then beg me to let you come.”
This is pure instinct mixed with everything I read. I have no idea what I’m doing, but seeing her reactions—seeing her completely at my mercy—makes me feel powerful in a way I never have before. And that makes me fuckingdrivento give her the most extreme pleasure her body can possibly feel.
I release her wrists and shift down her body, spreading her legs wider with my shoulders.
“Wait—” she gasps. “You just—your?—”
“Harper.” I meet her eyes. “There’s nothing thatcould stop me from tasting you. And I think you like how wrong that sounds.”
Her eyes flare wide and wild as I lower my mouth and start to suck on the fat, swollen clit my thumb was just playing with.
She slaps her forearm to her mouth and drops back to the pillow, her back immediately arching and her body spasming in quixotic, pleasured quakes. Like she was deliveredstraightto the peak of the orgasm the second my tongue started licking up and down the most intimate puffy, delicate little swath of pink flesh?—
One of her hands comes to my hair, and her fingernails dig into my scalp as she spasms. Once. Twice. And then she’s just shaking there, face pinched in pleasure, every muscle rigid as the pleasure rides her hard.
I gentle my touch but don’t stop, drawing it out, learning what makes her quake and what makes her sob. One orgasm rolls into another, and another, until she’s begging—actually begging—for me to stop.
And then to keep going the next second.
I’ve never felt more powerful. More connected to another human being. Or more certain that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, both breathing hard, her head on my chest.
My brain starts to come back online. Slowly.
Check her breathing: Steady. Good. Check her heartbeat against my ribs: Strong. Good. Check her skin temperature: Warm. Perfect.
I count her breaths without meaning to. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
She’s here. She’s safe. She’s mine.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Harper murmurs against my chest. “I can hear your brain starting up again.”
I huff a laugh. She knows me too well already.
“Can’t help it,” I admit. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m more than okay.” She tilts her head up to look at me, eyes soft. “I’m perfect.”
And just like that, my brain quiets again.
TWENTY-TWO
HARPER
We showeredin the middle of the night, and for once in my life, I let myself have something good without fucking it up first.
I’m snuggled in Caleb Graham’s arms in nothing more than his T-shirt all the way until morning, and it’s terrifying how right it feels. How his heartbeat under my ear is steadier than anything I’ve ever known. How his arm around my waist feels less like a cage and more like an anchor.
I don’t do this. I don’t stay. I don’t let people hold me while I’m vulnerable.
But here I am, breathing in sync with him, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek, and for a few stolen hours, I let myself pretend this could be real.
Except when the sky outside begins to lighten withthe approaching sun, reality crashes back in hard enough to break ribs.