Page 127 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“They’ve had to.”
“I know. But not anymore. Not with me.” I press another kiss to his wrist, where his pulse thrums beneath the skin. “With me, you can be soft.”
His breath shudders out of him.
My hands move to his chest. I flatten my palms against his pecs, feeling his heart pound beneath my touch. He’s warm—so warm—and solid in away that makes me feel safe even as I’m the one in control.
“Feel good, Banksy?”
“So good.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Nothing’s ever felt this good, baby.”
The endearment sends heat pooling low in my belly. I file it away—baby—and keep exploring.
I trace the ridges of his abs, one by one, feeling the muscles twitch and flex under my fingers. His breathing becomes ragged. The V-lines leading into his waistband are well-defined, and when I trace them with my fingertips, his hips jerk involuntarily.
“Win—”
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
I lean down and kiss his chest, right over his heart. He jerks beneath me, his hands tightening on my hips.
I continue exploring, my lips trailing across his chest, his ribs, and the flat plane of his stomach. My hands roam everywhere—his back, his sides, the sensitive spots just above his hips that make him squirm. He’s falling apart beneath me, his composure crumbling with every touch. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
When I finally reach for his belt, he catches my wrist.
“Win. I need—I want to touch you too.”
“Soon.”
“But—”
“Shh.” I wait until his eyes meet mine. They’re dark, glazed, barely holding on. “Let me.”
Something breaks in his expression; the last wallcrumbles.
“Okay,” he whispers.
I undo his belt slowly, drawing out the anticipation. The button of his jeans. The zipper. He lifts his hips to help me slide them down, and then—
Oh.
He’s straining against his boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide how much he wants this. Wantsme. I trace the outline of him through the cotton, and he hisses through his teeth.
“Fuck. Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing. I’m appreciating.”
“Win—”
I pull his boxers down, and my breath catches.
I knew he was big; I discovered that much the night of the gala. But seeing him like this—fully bare, hard and straining, looking at me like I’m everything—
“You’re staring,” he says, a flush creeping up his neck.
“Can you blame me?” I wrap my hand around him, and his whole body tightens, a groan tearing from his throat. “You’re perfect, Banks. Every inch of you.”
He’s thick and heavy in my palm, silky skin over steel. I stroke him slowly, watching his face, cataloging every reaction—the way his jaw clenches, his eyes flutter, his hands fist in the sheets.
