“You sure?” he asks, and the vulnerability in his voice makes my chest tight.
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. The sight of him—broad chest, defined abs, all that warm skin—makes my mouth go dry.
“I’m sure,” I breathe.
His hands find the hem of my sweater, but he pauses, waiting for permission. When I nod, he pulls it over my head with shaking hands, and the reverent way he looks at me—like I’m something precious, something worth worshipping. And I forget every insecurity I’ve ever had.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice rough with awe.
I reach for him then, tracing the lines of muscle across his chest, marveling at the solid strength of him.
Chapter Forty-One
Real
Mitchell
She’s perfect. That’s the only thought my brain can form as I take in the sight of her on my bed—dark hair spread across my pillows, skin flushed and warm under my touch, looking at me like I’m something she wants to keep.
Her curves are soft, feminine, everything I’ve been imagining since Minnesota but better because it’s real. When I trace the line from her collarbone to her breast, she makes this breathy sound that goes straight through me.
I undo the clasp of her bra and forget to breathe.
“You’re staring,” she whispers, but there’s no self-consciousness in it. Just heat.
“Can’t help it. You’re incredible.”
I’m trying to take my time, trying to memorize every response, every soft gasp when I find the spots that make her arch beneath me. But she’s making these little sounds that are driving me insane, and I’m fighting not to embarrass myself like some teenager.
“Clare Bear,” I whisper, pressing my lips to her rib cage.
“Hmm?”
“Tell me if this is too much.”
“You’re perfect,” she says, pushing her fingers through my hair.
“Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.” I plant a kiss below her navel, and she obeys, lifting from the bed so I can tug her panties down her legs.
I let them fall to the floor and settle between her thighs, my hands sliding up the smooth skin as I settle lower.
“God, Clare…” My voice is rough, almost reverent.
Her breath hitches, and when I glance up, she’s watching me like I’m something dangerous and holy all at once.
I drag my mouth lower, kissing a slow path south. “Sweetheart, I’ve been starving for this.”
While I take my time to worship her, her fingers tangle in my hair, and she breathes my name. The taste of her, the way she responds to every touch—it’s better than anything I imagined.
“Mitchy,” she gasps, and the way she says my name when she comes apart makes something fierce and possessive rise in my chest.
Then she’s reaching for me, pulling me back up to kiss me with desperate intensity. “My turn,” she murmurs against my mouth, and before I can process what she means, she’s pushing me onto my back.
The sight of her moving over me, taking her time, worshipful in the way she touches me—it’s too much and not enough all at once.
“You’re going to kill me,” I manage, my voice rough with need.
She looks up at me through her lashes, and the wicked smile she gives me makes my brain short-circuit. “That’s the plan.”