Page 73 of Offside

“You wore it,” he said.

“You sent it,” I said.

His mouth curved. “I had a vision.”

“And?”

He didn’t move. Just looked. Slow, thorough. I watched the slight tension move through his jaw and the power of being looked at like this, by him, in my own room, moved through me. It was exhilarating the way his hard gaze roamed over me. The black silk was warm against my skin. His expression was not.

“Turn around,” he said gruffly as he stood back up.

I turned away. His hands landed on my shoulders and slid down my back, tracing the line of the bralette’s closure, the edge of the underwear at the base of my spine. His mouth followed at my neck, then my shoulder, unhurried.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he said against my skin.

“I was thinking about it too.”

“What were you thinking?” His voice had dropped into the register that made thinking difficult.

“About you,” I said. “About the way you’re touching me right now.” My skin was on fire everywhere he ghosted his touch over me.

“I was right.”

“About what?”

“How beautiful you’d be in this, solsken. You’re so soft. So mine,” he whispered. Not a line. A fact he was stating. And I believed him.

He turned me back to face him and kissed me. Not the careful kind. The kind that made it immediately clear we were done with careful.

His hands were on the bralette first—not taking it off, just running his palms over the lace, feeling it, feeling me underneath it, the warmth of them bleeding through the thin fabric like he was learning me through it. He pulled back far enough to look at me again, raking his eyes over me, and he made me feel special, empowered, like I was worth staring at.

He walked me backward toward the bed without a word, his eyes moving over me slowly—the black lace against my skin, the low light, all of it—and I felt the weight of his stare in my stomach, in my thighs, in every place I’d been trying not to think about since the last time. The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I sat and he stayed standing, looking at me, and I understood he was going to take his time with this and that I was going to let him.

He reached out and ran his thumb along the edge of the bralette cup. Slow. Deliberate. The lace catching slightly against the pad of his thumb.

“Leave it on,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. My voice came out lower than I intended.

He took his shirt off and nudged me back so he could crawl on the bed over me, between my legs.

He leaned down and kissed my throat—warm, unhurried, his stubble dragging slightly against my skin—then my collarbone, then the swell of my breast above the lace. His hands slid to my waist, my hips, the waistband of the panties—not pulling them down, just resting there, warm and intentional, fingers spread wide against the silk. I was already warm everywhere. Already thinking about the last time and what he’d done and what I’d asked for and the fact that he’d remembered.

He remembered everything.

His mouth found my nipple through the lace and I gasped—sharp, involuntary—and he did it again, wetter this time, his tongue and his teeth working through the fabric until it was damp and the friction was maddening and I had both hands in his hair gripping the strands as he licked and sucked the sensitive peaks. Then he reached up and pulled the cup down—not off, just down, the bralette still on but displaced, both cups folded under my breasts so they sat up and out in the low light, completely available to him.

He looked at what he’d done with an expression of profound satisfaction, a wide grin.

“Much better,” he said.

Then he put his mouth on me properly and I stopped being able to form opinions about anything.

He took his time with it. Both hands, both sides, his mouth and his fingers moving back and forth—sucking one nipple into his mouth while he rolled the other between his fingertips, the dual sensation of it making my hips roll forward on their own. He’d paid attention last time and he was using every single thing he’d learned and I never wanted it to stop. Heat pooled low in my stomach and lower still and I was slick and swollen before he’d even touched me there.

“Turn over,” he said against my skin. “Hands and knees,” he said. Low. Certain.

Yes, sir.