His only answer is a hand fisting in my hair, pulling my head back sharply enough to make me gasp. To make me see stars. Or maybe that’s just the way his mouth is fastened on my throat.
I say his name again, and this time it’s a plea, a prayer, a promise. I clutch at him, my fingers digging in. My nails raking scratches down his back.
“Fuck, yeah,” he growls even as he laps at my collarbone. “Do that again.”
And so I do, pressing a little harder this time to make sure he feels the burn of my nails on his skin. He curses again, bites at my throat hard enough to leave a mark. And this time he doesn’t do anything to soothe the hurt.
Instead, he spins me around, slams my pelvis up against the counter. Grabs my tank top and yanks it over my head. He tosses it behind him and then his hands are on my breasts, his thumbs on my nipples.
“Luc. Oh my God, Luc.” It’s a breathless pant, a cry for help, a shaky mantra I repeat again and again and again as he fastens his mouth right over the spot where my neck meets my shoulder and starts to suck at the same time he squeezes my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he tells me. And then he bites me a second time, a sharp little nip that has pleasure shooting through me like a falling star—bright and hot and beautiful.
My knees tremble—they actually tremble—and I grab onto the counter for support. Lean into it in case my legs actually give out. As I do, I press my ass back, right into his cock. He groans, curses, and this time I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one seeing stars.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His hands drop to my jeans, fumble with the button. With the zipper. He hooks his fingers in the waistband, starts to pull them down, pull them off, but he stops before they even clear my hips.
“What—why?”
I reach for his hand, try to bring it back to my hips, but he skims it up my spine, buries it in my hair. Then pulls my head back and to the side so that he can see my face. My eyes.
“Is this okay?” he demands, his breath hot against my too flushed cheek. “Is this what you want?”
As I stare into his warm, brown eyes—so dark right now that they’re nearly black—I can see my own want, my own need, reflected there. Just as I can see his determination to get an answer out of me—and his willingness to stop if I so much as hesitate. Because he’s Luc and that’s just who he is. He’d never take advantage, never push for more than I want to give.
That only makes me want to give him more.
Makes me want to give him everything.
“I want you,” I tell him. I grab his hands, slide them over my hips and into my jeans. He groans, low and deep, his fingers toying with the top edge of my panties for long, torturous seconds. Then he’s grabbing on, yanking them—and my jeans—down my legs.
One of the legs gets caught on my bandaged foot and he drops to his knees. Guides it gently off, making sure nothing brushes against my cuts. Again, of course he does. Because he’s Luc.
For a second, just a second, stupid tears spring to my eyes. He’s always so careful with me, always so tender, and I don’t know how to deal with it. How to react. The whole world treats me like I’m titanium—tough and hard and impossible to break. Even my family. Even my best friends. But not Luc. Not right now.
No, he’s treating me like I’m soft. Like I’m breakable. Like I matter. And I don’t know how to react to that. Not when he’s only the second guy I’ve ever been with and the first guy—Darren—never took anywhere near as much care with me.
“Hey.” Luc’s hands cup my naked ass, his fingers brushing against my hip in a rhythm I know he means to be soothing but that only turns me on more. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
God, yes. Everything’s perfect. After the day we had, after the weirdness that’s stretched between us for so long, it shouldn’t be. But somehow, right here, right now, with Luc’s hands on my body and his concern washing over me like sweet summer raindrops, everything feels like it’s exactly how it should be.
I reach for him, wrap my arm around the wicked hardness of his bicep, try to pull him up so that we’re hip to hip. I’m aching, desperate to feel him inside of me, and I don’t want to wait one second longer.
But Luc has other ideas. He slips out of my grip, then presses a hand against my lower back so I’m bent over the cabinets, my naked breasts flush against the cool granite of his countertops. He grabs my hips, pulls them out a little further. Presses on the inside of my thighs so I widen my stance.
And then he just stares at me, for long, long seconds that feel like minutes. That feel like hours. I’ve never felt so exposed.
I’m an athlete, have been one my whole life. I know I have a good body, a strong body, with long, lean muscles and firm, smooth skin. Normally, I’m proud of my body—of the shape it’s in, and the tricks it can do—but that’s on the snow. In the half-pipe. Standing here, naked—with my small breasts and narrow hips—while Luc stares at me…I’ve never felt so insecure. I have the body of a snowboarder, not a snow bunny, and for a moment, I’m terrified that Luc is disgusted; that, sober, he isn’t interested in me or the few charms I have to offer.
God knows, Darren never passed up a chance to tell me how unfeminine I was.
“Is,” I start, but my voice breaks as I glance over my shoulder at him. I clear my throat, try again. “Is something wrong?”
“Fuck, no.” He rests his hands on the back of my thighs again, his thumbs gently stroking my inner thighs even as he pushes my legs just a little further apart. “You’re so beautiful, Cam. So fucking beautiful you take my breath away.”
Oh, God. His words echo deep inside of me. Make me shiver. Make me wet. Make me want.