Maybe he’s right. Maybe tomorrow I’ll regret this and count it as a reckless mistake. But right now, I don’t care about tomorrow. The only thing I want is exactly what he’s offering: his touch, his attention, and this thrill that vibrates from low in my belly and out through my fingertips. I feel alive when he touches me. I feel daring and bold. Have I ever felt this way?
I back up to the couch and sit before crooking a finger at him. As surely as if I pulled a leash, he comes, his gaze never straying from my face. His lips are parted and his hands fisted at his sides, as if he can’t trust himself to touch. When he stands in front of me, our eyes lock as he unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off his arms, and throws it to the side. He peels his undershirt off, and then his chest is bare and he’s standing before me in his jeans, that raw hunger in his eyes. I break eye contact to take him in—to appreciate the hard planes of his stomach and the breadth of his chest. There’s a dark smattering of hair across his pecs that tapers into a soft line over his navel and disappears into the waistband of his jeans. His arms and chest are roped with lean muscle and covered in ink. The tattoos take me by surprise. He seems so put-together—he’s the clean-cut boy next door with his shirt on and the dangerous bad boy without it. I like both sides of him. I like that he has both sides—that he wants to be noble and walk away, but he also wants to take what I’m offering.
Reaching forward, I hook two fingers through a belt loop and tug him toward me.
He closes his eyes and groans, but instead of joining me on the couch, he drops to his knees in front of me. He takes my wrists in his hands and guides my arms to rest behind my head. He trails rough fingertips down my arms, over my shoulders, across my collarbone, and down between my breasts. I arch toward him instinctively, and he cups a breast in each hand and skims a thumb over each nipple. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?” Then he brings his mouth to my breast and sucks at the nipple through the lace, pulling so hard the pleasure is just this side of pain.
I cry out and grip handfuls of his hair. He pulls back to look into my eyes while he drags one hand slowly up my leg to part my thighs.
He swallows thickly. “Take off your bra.” I obey with shaking hands. I keep my eyes on his as I unhook it and slide it off. He exhales slowly. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”
“So are you.”
He slides a hand between my legs, and I moan as he scrapes his knuckles across my center. The light contact is exactly where I need it and has me coming off the couch and toward his hand, adding friction to the touch. “Shh, baby. Be patient. Let me play.”
My body is shaking—trembling at the slightest touch and begging for more. When he peels my panties from my hips, I practically whimper in gratitude, but before I can be embarrassed by the desperate sounds slipping from my lips, his eyes go hot and he watches his fingers toy with me.
I’m shaking. God, it feels good to be wanted. To be desired. To be touched. Marcus wanted to marry a virgin—just another way I fell short of the mark. Since I wasn’t the virginal bride he’d imagined for himself, he insisted we go through the process of becoming “born-again virgins” through his church. It was so important to him that we wait until our wedding night, and he hadn’t touched me intimately in any way in months. He said abstinence would make our wedding night special, so our contact was limited to chaste kisses and hand-holding.
I squeeze my eyes shut at those thoughts. I don’t want to think about Marcus or his bullshit or his lies.
My mysterious stranger circles my clit with his thumb and returns his mouth to my breast. The combined pleasure is too much, and I squeeze my legs closed, trapping his hand there.
“Are you okay?” He softens his touch then pulls away entirely. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. I . . .” I part my thighs again. “Please, don’t stop.” I meet his smoky gaze. “I need this. I need you to touch me.”
His nostrils flare. “You can’t say things like that to me, sweetness. Not if you don’t mean them.”
“I mean it,” I whisper.
“You don’t even know me.”
I shake my head. “Does it matter?” I thought I knew my fiancé. I thought I knew my sister. They both betrayed me. I just want to feel beautiful and desirable for one night. Just one night.