I let my own hands explore, pushing them under his shirt, sliding them across his chest, down his abs, marveling at the solid strength of him. When I reach the waistband of his jeans, I feel him tense beneath me.
“Clare—”
“Ground rules,” I remind him, my fingers working his belt buckle. “Clothes stay on.”
His laugh is strained. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Good,” I say, and mean it.
Because turnabout is fair play, and he’s been driving me crazy all weekend with his casual touches, protective gestures, and the way he looks at me like I’m something precious.
When my hand finds him through his jeans, he makes a sound that goes straight to my core—raw, desperate, completely unguarded.
“Clare.”
“Too much?” I ask, but I don’t stop.
“Not enough,” he groans, his hips bucking into my touch. “Never enough.”
His confession emboldens me, and I kiss him deeper, pouring all my pent-up desire into our connection. He responds in kind, his thumb tracing patterns that make me forget my own name.
“You’re incredible,” he whispers against my throat, and the reverence in his voice makes something flutter dangerously in my chest.
This is far beyond anything I expected when I agreed to this fake girlfriend charade. The way he touches me like he’s been waiting his whole life for permission, the way he checks in with soft questions and gentle hands even when we’re both clearly desperate for more.
All of him—broad shoulders, strong hands, the solid weight of his body against mine—leaves me wondering how I’ll manage after this. How I’m going to maintain professional distance when I know what he sounds like when he’s losing control.
But I want this too much to stop.
“Still good?” he whispers, waiting for my answer.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and his hand moves to the button of my jeans. The sound of the zipper seems impossibly loud in the quiet room, but then his fingers slide beneath the denim, beneath the lace of my underwear, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
“Oh,” I breathe, my back arching off the mattress.
“Yeah?” His voice is rough, strained with need. “Like that?”
I can only nod, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he works me with patient precision, like he’s memorizing every response, every sound I make.
“Mitch—” I moan as his fingers move with expert skill, soft circular touches over slick flesh.
He kisses me—my neck, my lips—while his fingers move inside my panties, and I climb higher and higher toward bliss.
“You’re so soft. So perfect,” he whispers.
“I want to touch you,” I gasp against his mouth.
“You don’t have to—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“I want to make you feel this good too.”
“I’m hanging on by a thread here,” he confesses against my lips, “and you’re about to snap it.”
My hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, and the sound he makes when I find him—hard and ready and so much more than I expected—goes straight through me.
“Clare,” he breathes, his voice breaking on my name.
There’s so much of him, warm and solid in my palm, and I feel a flutter of nerves mixed with want. His breathing changes, becoming shallow and uneven as I explore the length of him.