“Easton . . .” I slide my fingers into his hair and tug. “I want this.”
A shudder rocks through him. “Me too.” He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me slowly—a long, lingering kiss that scatters all thoughts from my brain. When he pulls back, I swear he’s looking at me. Maybe my body is better in the dark. Maybe he won’t notice the extra weight I carry in my waist or how chubby my thighs are. He traces my lips with his finger. I catch it between my teeth, and he groans before withdrawing. He traces a wet path down between my breasts, over my stomach, and tucks his finger beneath the waistband of my panties. “I want to touch you here,” he says, kissing my neck. “I want to feel you.”
I lift my hips off the bed and toward his hand. “Easton, please.”
He nips at the tender skin beneath my ear. He slips his hand under the cotton and grazes a knuckle over my clit.
“Shit!” I gasp.
I almost expect him to laugh at my outburst. Instead, he groans. “You’re already so damn wet. Did you wake up like this?”
“Yes.” Because it’s you, I want to say. Because I’ve wanted you for so long.
He slides his fingers over me. “I fucking love the feel of you on my fingers.”
My body winds tighter, tighter, tighter with every word he speaks. He’s barely touched me, and I already feel close. “East.”
He pinches my clit between two fingers, and I gasp. “Shh,” he whispers, his mouth over mine. “I want to hear you moan, but I need you to be quiet.” He sweeps his lips along my jaw again then slides a finger into me.
My body locks up, clenching tight around him. A single finger, but he’s stretching me so much.
“Relax,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re wet. Are you okay?”
“I’ve never . . .” I draw in a breath, because my body has already adjusted to the stretch of his thick finger, and pleasure has chased away the discomfort. “Not this.”
“Not even with your own fingers?”
“No. Just . . .” I can’t speak. Can’t think. His hand has found a delicious rhythm, pumping in and out of me, stretching me. Every time he plunges in, I want more—deeper—and every time he pulls out, I feel like part of me is missing.
“Good,” he growls against my neck. “I have no right, Shay, but I wanted it to be me. I want everything to be me.”
I barely register his words as pleasure knots in my gut and ratchets up my spine. He presses his thumb against my clit, and my body jerks. That thumb strokes, and my whole body shakes as I climb, climb, climb.
“Don’t fight it. Just let yourself feel good.”
I tug his hair. I’m clinging to him, to this moment, to the edge of a mountain I’m sure I’ve never seen before. His finger pumps faster and he presses his mouth to mine, swallowing my moans as I give in to the pleasure and let my orgasm pull me apart. I cling to him, shaking and boneless.
Even when I’m nothing but trembling aftershocks, he’s still kissing me, his hand moving in soothing, gentle strokes between my legs as I come down.
“I think I lied,” I say when he finally frees my mouth.
“About what?”
“I thought I’d given myself orgasms, but they were never like that.”
He groans, a long, low, tortured sound. “It’s different with a partner. Better. More intense.”
“I guess I should return the favor.” I roll to my side and reach for him, pressing the flat of my palm to his hard length. He stops me with a hand on my wrist. “What’s wrong?”
He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great.”
“You don’t want me to touch you?”
He blows out a breath. “I want so much. But not tonight, Shayleigh. Not when I have to leave tomorrow.” He pulls me into his arms and presses a kiss to the side of my neck. “I don’t deserve you.”
Easton woke me up this morning with a whispered apology. He promised his mom he’d have lunch with her before he leaves, and he flies back to California tonight. I desperately wanted him to stay—to kiss me more and touch me again, to convince me last night wasn’t just a dream—but I didn’t want to seem desperate or clingy. I smiled and told him to tell his mom I said hi, and he kissed me on the forehead and made me promise I’d text when I woke up.
Me: Texting, as promised.
Easton: Good morning, sleepyhead. How are you this morning?
Me: I’m good.
Easton: Are you? I hated leaving after what happened last night.
I hated for you to leave too. I wanted more. But I can’t tell him that. Even if my fingers itch to type the words. I’m a coward, so I stick with something safe.