Page 89 of Nash
"Third." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "You don't come until I tell you to."
My stomach drops. My whole body flushes, heat spreading from my chest to my throat to my face. "That seems like a rule designed to be broken."
"That's the point."
He kisses me. Slowly, deeply. His hand on my jaw controls the angle, tilting my head where he wants it. His other hand slides down my side to my hip, fingers pressing into the bone, and holds me against the doorframe. I reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, and he catches my wrist. Pins it against the wood above my head.
"Did I say you could touch me?" he says against my mouth.
"I was taking initiative."
"Initiative isn't on the list." He pins my other wrist above my head, both held in one hand, his grip firm enough that I feel theheadband press against my skin. His free hand slides under my shirt, up my ribs, his palm flat and warm against my bare skin, moving slowly enough that I feel every callus on his fingers. "The list is: follow the rules, use your words, and trust me."
"I trust you."
"Then stop trying to run this."
"I'm not trying to run this."
"Ruby." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark, his jaw set. "You're already trying to top from the bottom."
"I don't even know what that means."
"It means you're trying to control the scene by pushing me where you want me to go instead of letting me take you there."
"I push. That's what I do. You said pushing is how I connect."
"It is." He releases my wrists, steps back, and strips my shirt over my head in one smooth motion. The air hits my bare chest and my nipples tighten. His eyes drop, taking me in, and the way he looks at me makes my stomach clench. "I'm going to let you push. But when you push past the boundary I set, there are consequences."
"What kind of consequences?"
He walks me backward to the bed, his hand on my hip, steering me with a pressure I couldn't resist even if I wanted to. He sits me on the edge and crouches in front of me, his hands resting on my knees, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the inside of my thighs.
"Lie back."
I lie back. My heart is hammering. Nash pulls my shorts down my legs, inch by inch, his knuckles dragging along my skin the entire way. He drops them on the floor.
He stands. Crosses to the dresser. Opens the top drawer.
"Nash. What's in the drawer?"
"Patience."
"Patience is not a thing that's in a drawer."
He comes back with a small vibrator, sleek and curved, the kind that looks like it was designed by someone who actually understands female anatomy. He holds it up so I can see it.
"Oh god," I say. "Oh god. This is happening. You had that in my dresser? When did you put that in my dresser?"
"Yesterday. While you were asleep."
"You planted a sex toy in my furniture while I was napping. That's premeditated. That's first-degree vibrator placement."
"Ruby."
"I'm processing. Let me process."
"You can process later." He sets the vibrator on the mattress beside my hip and kneels between my legs. His hands part my thighs, spreading them open, and the exposure makes me flush from my chest to my hairline. He presses a kiss to my inner knee. "Right now I need you to breathe."
