Page 317 of Immune

“Prepared?” I ask, voice uneven and my raised eyebrow a little shaky.

“Hopeful,” he corrects. “Wasn’t assumin’.”

Damn him and his pretty accent that makes him sound charming and polite. Damn him for making my throat burn during this thing.

I help him roll it on the moment he tears the foil packet, then line him up again. His eyes stay on mine the entire time, a storm rolling through those wild eyes.

“Darlin’,” he says, voice rough and low. “You control this.”

“I know.”

“Then say it.”

My breath catches because he is not ordering me. He’s only asking me to hear myself.

“I control this,” I say.

His hands tighten on my thighs. “Yeah, you do.”

And then I sink down onto him, taking him inch by maddening inch slowly. So slow that it steals the air from my lungs and sends my heart into a galloping race I won’t mind if it loses.

Fletcher is thick, stretching me with every inch I claim, and I watch with arousal and fascination as his control ingrains itself into every line of his face. His jaw clenches enough that I hear his teeth grind. His arms tense enough that his veins pop with the strain of holding himself back. And his hands still stay exactly where I put them.

When I take him fully, sinking down on him until he bottoms out inside me and his knot rubs against the most sensitive part of my body, we both stop. The yard fades away to nothing, vanishing like it was never there to begin with. There’s just his body under mine, the rough bench under my batteredknees, the night air caressing my back, and the sheer solid heat of him inside me.

His forehead drops to my shoulder with a throaty rumble that seems to come from the depths of his chest. Not my throat, not the bites, but my shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

I tense automatically, like instinct still tells me those aren’t words that should be strung together around me. He feels it immediately and his hands loosen.

“No,” he corrects, voice rough. “You’ve got you. I’m just here. Just here, darlin’.”

Something in me shatters open then, but not in a bad way. It’s more like letting the air in and a much-needed breeze passing by when I need it most.

I start to move then. At first, I go slow, my hands braced on his shoulders while I adjust to his girth and length. His hands remain on my thighs.

My pace.

Mychoice.

My body taking what it wants without asking fear to approve first.

And Fletcher lets me. He doesn’t do anything but give me the control I’ve been craving. That I’ve been needing. But then I grow greedy. I want more.

“Grip me,” I tell him.

His fingers dig into my thighs.

“More.”

He gives me more and the pressure sends sparks shooting up my spine. I roll my hips harder, and his breath punches out against my skin.

“Like that?” he pants, his thighs tensing under me when I grind against him and release a little sound that blows his pupils wide.

“Yeah,” I breathe, right before I ride him harder.

The bench creaks precariously under us. His body meets mine, not taking over, just answering every call I make. Every thrust up is made of restraint until I press down harder. Every grip waits for my nod. Every rough sound he makes feels dragged out of him by nothing but my choice.