Page 93 of The Clinch
She’s here. And she lets me feel it.
“Last time,” she says against my mouth, “you didn’t?—”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to stop now?”
I pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown, but there’s something else there. A question. Maybe fear.
“Not this time. Not unless you want me to.”
She shakes her head.
“Say it,” I murmur. “Say that you want this. Us.”
“I’m scared, Leo,” she whispers instead.
“I know.” I brush my thumb over her jaw. “You can still run. I won’t stop you.”
She closes her eyes. “I don’t want to.”
“Then stay.”
When she opens her eyes again, I know she understands. My gaze drops to her mouth, to the way her bottom lip is just slightly fuller than the top, the way she’s biting down on it now, nervous, waiting.
I don’t surge forward or take over. I let her feel where I am—solid, unmoving, right here—while her body does the reaching. Her hips rock into me. I cup her face, fingers warm at her jaw, slowing her just enough to make her breathe. She drags me closer, taut against me, and there’s nothing uncertain about what she wants.
The effort of restraint turns brutal fast. Her eyes stay open while she explores my mouth with tongue and teeth, taking what she wants. The sound she makes when she presses into me is low and wrecked.
She’s done holding back.
When I slide my hands to her hips to lift her, her legs hook around me, a small sound escaping her.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, pressing my mouth to her temple.
“I know,” she says, voice raw.
My lips trail down her jaw, teeth grazing just below her ear. She shudders as I trail my tongue down her neck, tasting salt and warmth.
“You finally let me catch you.”
Then I’m kissing her again, harder, deeper. She’s warm, muscles tight under my hands, her exhale sharp as I skim my thumbs under her top.
“Take me to bed, Leo,” she breathes. “Please.”
I carry her down the hall to her bedroom, her weight perfect against me. The door is open, the room bathed in soft light from narrow windows. The scent of her is stronger here—fresh laundry, warm skin, shea from her lotion.
We fall onto her bed in a tangle of limbs and heat and something that feels too big to name. Her fingers shake as she pulls my shirt over my head. For a second, we just look at each other.
“Hi,” she whispers.
I almost laugh. “Hi.”
The fear is still there, but it isn’t winning. She’s here because she decided to be.
I kiss her again, slow and deep, and there’s no more hesitation. No more space between us. Just skin and the quiet sound of her saying my name.
“You’re so unfair,” she whispers, tracing my abs.
