Page 80 of Cut Off
“I cannot take my time.”
I sink the rest of the way down, slow but not careful, and I put his finger in my mouth and suck so I don’t make the sound I need to make.
I sit for a second, fully seated, forehead pressed to his, breathing him in, both of us frozen.
Then I move.
Up. Down. Slow at first because my thighs shake. He helps—his hands on my hips, lifting, guiding, the kind of strong that hockey gives a person. His mouth finds my nipple, hot and hungry, and I bite down on the side of my own hand to keep from being the reason a hotel staffer files a complaint.
“Faster,” he says against my skin.
“Yeah.”
“Faster, Zoe.”
I go faster. I am not graceful about it. Neither is he.
This is animal. His mouth, my hands in his hair, the slap of skin against skin that I’m praying the leather couch is absorbing, the smell of him under the cologne, the heat of him under my hands.
I have never had this with anyone. Not like this. Not the urgency. Not the need that lives somewhere behind the ribs and chews. The boys before him were nice. They were considerate. They asked questions. They tried.
This is not trying. This is happening.
“Zoe.”
“Mm.”
“Look at me.”
I look at him. His pupils are gone. His mouth is open. He looks wrecked already, hair stuck to his forehead, the shirt still hanging open off his shoulders, and the sight of him under me—Jonah Holt, NHL grump, the man who filled a ballroom for me an hour ago—does something to my chest that’s going to be a problem later.
His thumb finds me where we meet. Presses. Circles.
I jerk forward against him with a noise. A loud one.
“There it is.”
“Shit.”
He’s edging me. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s pulling back when I’m close, slowing his hips, lifting his thumb, making me chase it. Twice. Three times. I’m going to murder him in this hotel lounge, bury him under the leather couch, and the staff will find him in the morning and my podcast will get a true-crime spinoff after all.
“Holt.”
“Yeah.”
“I swear to God.”
“Yeah.”
“If you do that one more time—”
He does it one more time. Slows. Stops his thumb a centimeter from where I need it. Watches my face. Smug. Beautiful. Insufferable.
“Beg,” he says.
“Absolutely not.”
“Beg, Lane.”
