Page 107 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
Then I peeled off my socks one by one. His eyes hadn’t left me once, and that attention—that steady attention—did more for my confidence than anything else.
Then came the jeans.
Of course, I’d worn the fitted ones. And no matter how sexy I’d tried to make it, the reality of peeling tight denim over myhips and down my thick thighs was not the stuff of movies. By the time I’d kicked them off, I was very aware of how unseductive that had probably looked.
I went still.
I stood there in my oversized sweater, underwear, and bra, my gaze glued to the floor.
For one terrible moment, all the warmth and confidence drained out of me, replaced by that old familiar voice—the one that cataloged my thighs, my softness, and all the ways my body might not match the image in my head. The one that questioned if I wasn’t sexy enough, would he want to keep looking?
His footsteps thudded on the hardwood, then the softer sound of the rug that surrounded the bed. He stopped directly in front of me and gently cupped the back of my head. His fingers laced in my hair and tugged, so I lifted my face to meet his gaze.
“Did I push you too far?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “I just—the jeans. I’m not used to doing a striptease. And that was probably the least sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.”
He took my hand. Pressed it flat against his chest, holding it there. His heart raced beneath my touch.
“Do you feel that?”
I did. Every frantic beat.
Then he drew my hand slowly downward—across his stomach, to his waistband, then lower. He paused. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
He guided my hand the rest of the way, and I felt exactly how much he wanted me, even through the fabric. My fingers curled instinctively around his hardened cock and squeezed. He sucked in a sharp breath, his whole frame going taut.
“Does that feel,” he said carefully, “like a man who has lost interest?”
I moved my hand again, slowly, and watched his eyes close for a moment at the sensation. He shuddered. The power in that—in being the one who did this to him—was like nothing I had experienced.
He caught my wrist. Steadied himself with what looked like genuine effort. “You come first.”
“Marc, come on. I clearly want you.” I groaned. “Trust me, if my panties get any wetter, they might just slide down my legs all on their own.”
“This isn’t some romance novel ideation, Delaney. Your pleasure is mine.” He said it as a fact.
I scoffed. “What guy doesn’t want to come?”
“It’s not just about that with me. I get off on you getting off.”
My eyes widened. “Really?”
He didn’t say anything. Except for the self-satisfied smirk that curled up the corners of his mouth.
I looked at him—at the open, earnest certainty in his face—and felt something turn over beneath my ribs. I’d spent a long time with people who treated desire as a transaction. This wasn’t that.
“Okay,” I said softly. A side I didn’t even know I had, this bratty, pushing-buttons side, had me squeezing his dick one more time, and dragging my nails up his hard length.
His eyes sparked, and I had a feeling he was taking note of my behavior and deciding just how much he’d be willing to let me get away with.
“Okay.” He stepped back, giving me space, and that same quiet attention settled over his face. Waiting. “The rest, then. I want to see all of you.” For a moment, I almost argued, almost reached for him, and let this stubborn, bratty side win. But the way he looked at me—like he had all the time in the world and no intention of looking away—settled within me.
I slid my fingers under the hem of my sweater. Lifted it an inch. Let it drop.
His gaze dropped to the sliver of skin at my waist and stayed there, something about that—the complete honesty in his attention—made me braver.
