Page 79 of Dallas Rivals

So cautiously, I slide my hands under the hem of his T-shirt, brushing against his stomach.

He flinches as if I had thrown ice water on him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, keep going,” he urges through clenched teeth.

His stomach is hard and hairy, not much, but enough for me to like the rough, manly surface under my hands.

“Take it off,” I order, referring to his T-shirt.

He responds immediately, pulling it over his head and letting it fall to the floor of my bedroom.

Abs, defined pecs, and the V in his pelvis—I caress it all. His eyes carefully follow the movement of my hands, but I watch him and gauge my progress based on his reaction. The worst part is near his member; that’s where he tenses up the most, but when I touch his abs, that’s when he relaxes the most.

Oliver rests his forehead on mine and, with his eyes closed, searches for my mouth. My senses focus solely on his lips and how they feel on mine, demanding, strong, thirsty...

His hands blindly search for my pajamas, trying to rip them off my body, and he succeeds, leaving my bra exposed.

Any man would immediately focus on my breasts, but not Oliver. His eyes are fixed on the large tattoo on my left arm.

One that I kept hidden all this time.

A constellation — tiny stars scattered from my shoulder down to my elbow, with a crescent moon resting peacefully at its center.

His fingertips trace it with quiet fascination, following each star like he’s memorizing a map.

“My night sky,” he murmurs, almost to himself. There’s confusion in his eyes, but not the harsh kind I’ve seen before. It’s softer, like wonder.

“I got it years ago,” I whisper, not sure why I’m explaining something he hasn’t asked. “When my grandma passed away, I wanted… a way to keep her close.”

Oliver’s fingers linger over the moon, his touch so gentle it barely feels real. Then he leans in, pressing his lips to my skin—slowly, reverently—up my neck, to the curve of my jaw.

“Bed,” he murmurs against my lips. His steps guide me backward until the mattress catches my knees and I fall softly onto it.

Oliver follows, bracing himself above me, his body hovering close enough for our skin to brush, to breathe the same air.

“Your skin…” he whispers, his nose grazing the hollow between my collarbones, “it fascinates me.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads on my lips. There’s something breathtaking about hearing that kind of awe in his voice—raw, unguarded. I’ve never had a man touch me like this, not out of hunger, but reverence.

For a long while, words disappear. All that’s left are slow, tender movements, his breath against my neck, my hands tracing the lines of his shoulders, the sound of our hearts trying to find the same rhythm.

The heat between my legs is unbearable, I feel soaked, and my body leans into his touch.

“I want to eat you out,” he whispers, moving down my stomach, “until you scream my name.”

I smile and bury my fingertips in his hair, which is soft to the touch.

“Do you want my father to hear us?”

“At this point, that’s the least of my concerns,” he says between my legs, “and besides, we can agree that mentioning your father when I’m about to feast between your legs isn’t the best idea, right?”

I laugh out loud at the same moment that he buries his mouth in me, and suddenly I find myself gasping for breath.

Oliver kisses me down there with the same passion he kisses my lips. The same dynamic, the same speed and fervor.

His hands grip my waist, pinning me to the bed while I caress his shoulders and neck.