Page 68 of Ruthless Scar
He crosses the room. Opens a drawer. Comes back with a length of fabric. Silk, or close to it. The color of his sheets.
“Do you trust me?”
The question lands in the quiet like a stone in water. Ripples.
“Yes.”
He steps close. Gripping the fabric. He lifts it to my face. “Close your eyes.”
I close them. The fabric settles over my lids. He ties it behind my head. Careful. A tug at the back of my head, pulling my hair free of the knot. Not too tight. He runs his thumb under the edge where it meets my cheekbone, checking.
The world goes dark. My other senses rush forward. The heat of him in front of me. The scent of soap and sandalwood and that trace of sweat.
“Color?”
“Green. So green. Extremely green.” Silence. Then: “Are you just standing there? Because the suspense is killing me.”
His heat is behind me. I missed the movement. Breath against my nape. Goosebumps down both arms. The words die.
A graze on my shoulder. Not a kiss. Warmth on bare skin above my collar. I tense everywhere and he hasn’t done anything yet.
“Breathe.”
I try. Shallow. I know the room. The bed behind me. The door to my right. But I don’t know where he is and my pulse is sprinting.
He finds the hem of my shirt. Lifts. Over my head. Off. Air on my bare skin. No bra. I came from bed. He makes a sound. Low. Involuntary.
“What? Disappointed? I can go back to mine and find a push-up if you?—”
“Stop talking.”
He starts at my shoulders. Slides down. The backs of my arms. My elbows. The inside of my wrists. Learning me by touch. Finding pulse points and soft skin and the places where I twitch.
“Is this your idea of a first date? Because I had notes.”
“What notes.” Not a question. A warning.
“Candles. A playlist. Not a blindfold in a room that smells like a woodshop.”
“You’re still talking.”
“You haven’t made me stop yet.”
He does. Thumbs grazing the undersides of my breasts. I arch into the contact before I can stop myself. He cups me. Circling. The pressure builds in my stomach and between my legs and he hasn’t gone below my ribs yet.
“Lie down.”
His grip on my waist. Guiding me backward. My calves hit the mattress and he eases me down. The mattress shifts under his weight. His knees between mine. Fingertips trace down the hollow of my throat. The dip between my collarbones. Lower. Between my breasts. Down my stomach. Every nerve firing because there’s no warning, no way to predict where he’ll touch next.
My shorts go next. He hooks the waistband and drags them down. The underwear with them. I kick them off.
I’m under him. Bare. Blind. Shaking.
“You’re shaking.”
“Aware.”
He spreads my legs apart. Slow. Deliberate. I grab the sheet. He slides down my stomach. Between my legs. One touch tracing where I’m wet and aching. Not entering. Just circling. The pressure exact enough to make my hips rock but nowhere near enough.
