Page 50 of Nash
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw. To the spot below my ear. His teeth close on my earlobe and tug. My spine arches off the wall.
"Stay still," he says.
"I can't."
"You can." His hand slides from my hip to the front of my thigh, his fingers spreading wide, holding me against the wall. "Stay. Still."
I try. I last about three seconds before my hips roll again, pressing against his thigh, chasing the friction that's building between my legs. My clit throbs against the seam of my sleep shorts and I'm wet, soaked. He has to feel it because his thigh is right there.
His breath stutters. His fingers dig into my thigh.
"Ruby." A warning. Darker this time.
"I said I can't."
Nash's mouth is on my throat. Teeth grazing my pulse point. The hand in my hair tilts my head back further, exposing my neck, and the grip isn't gentle. It's possessive. Controlled. The kind of hold that says I have you and I'm not letting go.
He sucks on my pulse point. Hard enough to leave a mark. My hand flies to his shoulder, nails digging into the muscle, and the sound I make isn't a word. His free hand slides up my ribcage, his thumb grazing the underside of my breast through my T-shirt, and I arch into his palm.
"Please," I whisper.
"Please what?"
"Touch me."
His thumb traces the curve of my breast. Slow. Circling. He brushes across my nipple through the fabric, and I gasp. He doesit again. Slower. My hips grind against his thigh, and the wet heat between my legs is impossible to hide.
"You're shaking," he says against my throat.
"I'm aware."
He lifts me. Both hands under my thighs, pulling me up the wall as if I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist. The shift in position presses my center against the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans. He's hard. Thick. The length of him is pressed against me through two layers of fabric, and the moan that rips out of me echoes down the hallway.
His breathing is ragged as he drops his forehead against mine. His hips roll against me once, and the friction of his cock against my pussy through my shorts sends a shock up my spine that makes my vision white out at the edges.
"Fuck," he breathes.
I grind against him. Rolling my hips, I press my clit against the hard line of him, finding the angle that makes the pressure build. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise. He lets me. For three strokes he lets me ride the friction, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out, his body coiled.
"Ruby." My name in his mouth. Rough. Wrecked. "Stop."
"I don't want to stop."
"I know." His voice is barely controlled. "Stop."
I roll my hips one more time. Pressing the full length of his cock against me, and the groan he makes is guttural, torn from somewhere deep.
His hand clamps down on my hip. Hard. Stilling me. Pinning me against the wall with a grip that says this is not a request.
"I said stop."
I stop.
My body screams at the loss of friction as my clit pulses. My thighs tremble around his waist. But I stop because the voice he's using isn't playful. It's the voice from the shop, from the fry,from every moment he's held the line while I pushed against it, except now I can feel what holding the line is costing him. His cock is pressed against me, hard, straining against his jeans. I feel his hands shake against my thighs. His forehead is against mine and his breathing is shot.
"Not like this," he murmurs. The words cost him. "Not in a hallway. Not because you can't sleep."
"Then how?"
