Page 113 of Nash
"No what?"
"No, I don't want you to stop."
He leans over my back, his chest against my spine, his mouth at my ear. "Tell me something."
"What?"
"Tell me what you feel right now."
"Turned on. Frustrated. Aching. Like my whole body is plugged into an electrical outlet and you keep flipping the switch on and off."
"What else?"
"Safe." The word surprises me. "I feel safe. Which doesn't make sense because I'm naked on my hands and knees in a sex club with your handprint on my ass. I should feel exposed and instead I feel—" My voice cracks. "You're holding the structure. I can feel it. And it makes everything else quiet."
His lips press against my shoulder blade. Tender. The contrast to everything he's been doing all night.
"That's the dynamic," he says against my skin. "That's what you've been looking for."
His hand returns between my legs, but this time his thumb doesn't go to my clit. It slides higher, over my perineum, pausing at the tight ring of muscle. He circles it, light, barely there, the pad of his thumb slick with my wetness.
My breath stops.
"Nash."
"Breathe."
"I've never—"
"I know. We're not going further than this tonight. Just pressure. Just sensation. Tell me to stop and I stop."
His thumb circles, slow, gentle, while his other hand slides between my legs and his fingers find my clit. The dual sensation, the new pressure at an opening I've never explored and the familiar rhythm on my clit, creates something I don't have language for. My body tenses, then slowly, slowly relaxes against the touch.
"Oh," I say. "Oh. That's... that's different."
"Good different or stop different?"
"Good. Really good. Confusingly good. Like my body just discovered a frequency I didn't know it had."
He adds more pressure, his thumb pressing against the tight ring, not entering, just pushing enough to create resistance, while his fingers speed up on my clit. The combination builds something in my pelvis that's wider, deeper than a regular orgasm, a pressure that radiates outward.
"Nash. Nash, that's—I'm going to—"
"Not yet."
"You are the WORST person alive."
He removes his thumb, shifts behind me, and I hear his zipper. Instead of his cock, I hear the drawer on the side table open. A click. A familiar low buzz.
"Nash. Is that—"
"The room comes equipped." His voice is dark. Amused. "Hands and knees, Ruby. Stay."
His hand returns to my pussy, fingers sliding through my folds, coating them in the wetness pooling between my thighs. Then the head of his cock presses against my entrance, thick, blunt, and he pushes inside me in one unhurried, devastating stroke.
My mouth opens against the sheets. My hands fist the fabric. He fills me completely, stretches me. The fullness after the denial, after the edging, after the supply closet, after the whole goddamn day of wanting, is so intense that tears leak from the corners of my eyes.
"Breathe," he says. His hand grips my hip, steadying me, giving my body time to adjust around him. I feel every thick inch of him deeply, and my walls clench in involuntary pulses.
