Page 70 of York

I felt like I could finally relax when he was close.

I couldn’t afford to let that be the case, though. Too much depended on me. My guard had to stay up.

But then his hand was sliding up and down my spine and my body forgot all about how much was on my shoulders, how I needed to stay ready for anything.

Each muscle that had been tensed for years, eased. My breath, that had been quick and shallow for as long as I could remember, went slow and deep.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

Lighter.

Looser.

Freer.

But that wasn’t what he was asking.

“It’s just the throat right now. And that’s sixty percent better.”

“How’s the bruising?”

“A lot more green and yellow now. Ama said I will probably still need the scarf for another five or six days. Though I might be able to start using makeup instead of the scarf if more of the blue is gone.”

“That’s good.”

His fingers kept their gentle trailing up and down my back, but slipped a little lower, grazing the space where my shirt had slipped up to reveal a sliver of skin.

The barely-there touch sent a shiver working its way through me. I hoped for a moment that it was just one of those internal trembles. Until I felt York stiffen.

It was another moment where I knew I had to pull away.

And another one where I didn’t do that.

So when York’s hand slipped low again, and teased up the back of my shirt, I sank into the way my belly flipped and my heart fluttered.

It wasn’t long before his hands were fully under my shirt, moving over sensitive skin, slipping up my side, over my ribs, skimming over the side of my breast.

His palm moved back down, going lower, grabbing the back of my leg, and pulling until my leg was over his hip.

It was so easy to shift my weight until I was on top of him, to look down at him, to lean down and seal my lips to his.

It wasn’t long before York was moving up to sit, taking me up as well, straddling him as his hands started to roam over me again.

He snagged the hem of my shirt, pulling up until I broke the kiss so he could pull it off of me.

The cool air teased my skin, and that mixed with the heat building inside me sent another shiver down my spine.

The scarf came off my neck, and the way his fingers drifted gently over the bruise made my belly flip.

But then his hand was covering my breast and all there was left was the heat building inside, the little sparks of desire that pricked my skin, the way need coiled deep in my belly, begging for movement, for friction.

York’s hand squeezed; his fingers circled, pinched. Then he was leaning me back so he could lower down and suck one of the peaks into his mouth, making a shocked gasp escape me.

My legs tightened to the sides of his.

My hips dropped down.

His cock, straining against the material of his jeans, pressed against me, and I was helpless but to rock against him, to try to get relief from the ache inside.