Page 15 of The Silent Hour

His palm traveled higher beneath the shirt, skimming the ridge of my spine, and I felt his fingers curl against the bare skin of my ribs. The callus on his thumb—the one I'd noticed earlier—dragged across my side, and I made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my collarbone, his lips moving against my skin with each word. His hand stilled, waiting.

I looked down at him. His eyes were dark, nearly black in the low light, and his breathing was ragged. There was a restraint in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers trembled just slightly against my ribs, that told me he meant it. He would stop and never mention it again if that was what I asked. I knew he would.

The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it made something reckless flare in my chest. I leaned down until my lips brushed his ear. "Don't you dare."

His hand moved again, sliding around to my stomach, fingers splaying flat against my bare skin. The heat of his palm burned through me like a live wire. His fingers were slow, deliberate—tracing the line of my ribs, the dip of my waist, the curve beneath—and every inch of skin they crossed caught fire.

Then his palm slid higher, and his thumb brushed the underside of my breast through nothing but the thin cotton of his shirt, and my whole body went rigid.

"Fuck," I whispered, the word falling out of me.

His thumb moved again slowly, experimental, dragging across the sensitive skin—and I felt my nipple harden against his palm through the fabric. A sound escaped me that I didn't recognize, something between a gasp and a moan, and his hand tightened, cupping me fully through the shirt.

"Tell me this is okay," he said against my neck, his voice so rough it barely sounded like him.

"It's okay." More than.”

His thumb found my nipple through the cotton and rolled it. I arched into his hand with a sharp, involuntary jerk of my hips. The movement pressed me harder against him, and I felt him—hard, unmistakable—beneath me, and the sound he made vibrated against my collarbone.

He did it again. The same slow, maddening roll of his thumb, and then again, and each time my body responded before my brain could catch up, hips rolling forward, back arching, breath coming in short, desperate bursts.

The shirt was too much fabric. The bra was too much. Everything between his hand and my skin felt like an insult.

"Take it off," I heard myself say.

His hand stilled. "What?"

"The shirt. Take it off."

He pulled back just enough to look at me, and something about the expression on his face—the restraint warring with want—made my chest ache. His hand slid from beneath the shirt, fingers curling around the hem, and he pulled it upward in one smooth motion.

Cool air hit my stomach, my ribs, the bare skin of my back, and then the shirt was gone—tossed somewhere behind me, forgotten. I was sitting in his lap in nothing but my bra and the borrowed shorts, and the look on his face was worth every second of vulnerability.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, and the words were so quiet that they didn't sound like a line. They sounded like a fact he was reporting to the room.

His hands found my waist again, thumbs pressing into the hollows above my hips, and he pulled me closer—or maybe I moved, maybe I couldn't help it—until there was no space left between us. His mouth found mine, hungrier now, less careful, and his hands slid up my sides, over my ribs, and cupped my breasts through the thin lace of my bra.

His thumbs went to my nipples through the fabric, circling them with agonizing slowness. I couldn't help the moan that escaped me, the sound echoing in the quiet penthouse.

"Ethan," I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders. My body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more.

He lowered his mouth to my collarbone, his lips trailing fire across my skin. One hand slid from my breast down my stomach, fingers splaying against my bare skin. I tensed, anticipating where he was heading.

"You're shaking," he murmured against my neck, his breath hot and ragged.

"Because you're taking too long," I managed, my voice barely recognizable.

His low chuckle vibrated against my throat. "Patience."

But his hand didn't hesitate. It slipped beneath the waistband of his borrowed shorts—my underwear beneath—and I held my breath. His fingers met bare skin, and a flash of gratitude shot through me for my habit of keeping everything neatly trimmed. At least one thing about this situation wasn't humiliating.

"Fuck," he breathed as his fingers found me, slick and wanting. "Julia."

My hips moved against his hand of their own accord, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of everything.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.