“Jesus, Nell.” His voice is a guttural rasp. He slides the tip of his forefinger gently over my cleft, a light tickling touch that has me squirming with need.
“Please.” I arch my hips to encourage his deeper exploration.
His groan brushes my shoulder. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I think…oh, that feels so good…I think you’re going to be the life of me.”
A curse breaks from him. He moves again, pressing his groin against my bare thigh. And holy god, his penis has to be fully hard now because that thing is huge, a rod of thick solid flesh pulsing straight into my blood.
I wiggle to get a closer look, certain it has to be sticking out of his pants by now, but then he strokes his finger all the way down to the crack of my bottom. My breath stops.
“What are you…”
My voice trails off when he slides his finger upward again, continuing an easy, rhythmic caress that ratchets up my urgency by agonizingly slow degrees. Up one side, down the other, a gentle sweep all the way back to my rear before resuming the upward path. I have no idea how he knows exactly how to touch me, but my toes curl with pleasure, and every nerve ending sizzles with heat.
I lose track of how long he touches me like that, only the light stroking of one forefinger. My arousal stretches tighter and tighter, spinning like a wheel in my belly.
The impatient part of me wants to reach down and bring myself to orgasm, to release the painful tension, but a larger part of me wants Darius never to stop touching me. I want him to continue this delicious stroking forever with his erection pressed against my leg, his breath hot on my skin, his powerful body coiled with restraint.
My thighs weaken. I lift my head to look at the movement of his hand between my legs, struck by the contrast of my pale skin against his strong, tanned forearm dusted with dark hair. So different from everything about me.
He slides his finger into my inner folds. I gasp, almost bucking off the bed in shock.
“Open wider,” he orders hoarsely. “Christ, you’re so fucking ready.”
Shivers course through me. I grip the bedcovers, my chest heaving with the force of my breath. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to control my drive for release because I never want this to end.
Again his touch is slow and rhythmic—two fingers sliding simultaneously down either side, then around my opening before moving up again. Pressure collects in my lower body, tight and painful.
“Darius.” I fumble to grip his wrist, straining toward release. “Please. I can’t wait.”
“Open your eyes.” He slips his finger inside me. His heart pounds against my arm, and I feel him watching me, his gaze burning. “Look at me.”
Forcing my eyes open, I stare at him through a haze of lust. His eyes are black with desire, his jaw tight. The cut on his forehead is a mess of dried blood and bruised skin. Sweat trickles down his temples.
He eases another finger inside me and thrusts, a strange sensation that I’m not sure I love until he circles his thumb around my clit. And then the wheel inside me spins harder, faster, pulling me upward before stars burst in my vision and flames fire my blood. A cry breaks from my throat, heavy and breathless.
His voice is a low, comforting murmur in my ear, but I can’t make out his words over the sound of my pounding heart. He continues stroking me gently until the sensations ease, and I fall back against the pillows, gasping and trembling.
“You’re like a feather, the way you respond.” He presses a kiss to my cheek, his fingers still expertly working the last vibrations from my body.
I look at him, astonished by the depth of satisfaction and approval in his expression, the warm curve of his mouth.
“Thank you.”
Faint hardness lines his jaw. “Don’t thank me.”
I half expect him to launch into his “this is wrong” speech, but instead he picks up the discarded washcloth and goes into the bathroom, returning with it rinsed and damp. Gently he strokes it over my sticky thighs and upward, parting my folds to clean them. Though I blush at the weird intimacy of the act, I’m too limp and satiated to move or protest.
“Get some sleep, Nell.” He tugs the faded quilt over me and bends to kiss my forehead.
I turn, reaching out to stroke my hand down his chest to the still-hard bulge in his pants. “I want to touch you too.”
“No.” He takes hold of my wrist, stopping the motion. “We’re not going there.”
An argument rises to my throat—why shouldn’t we go there when we just went here?—but sleep descends bit by bit, and I let myself fall.
CHAPTER 30
Nell
A sudden cold wakes me. It’s still dark out. The only sound is the heavy push-and-pull rhythm of the ocean. For an instant, I’m suspended between the hazy dream world where Darius was touching me and reality where…
I’m naked under the quilt. Something feels unwound inside me, like a spool of thread unraveled and loose.
It really did happen. He held me and touched me and made me come. So hard.
Though the memory sends a shiver down my spine, it’s not exactly as simple as that. He’d fought a war before giving in to my plea, and Darius Hawke is not a man accustomed to losing.
As evidenced by the brutal fight he’d won only hours before putting his fingers inside me.
The memory splinters—Darius slamming a fist into his opponent, the sound of crushing bone, blood splattering, shouts rising like black smoke…
Pulling myself from the warmth of the quilt, I grab his T-shirt from the floor and slip it over my head. It’s only two-thirty. It feels like a lifetime since I left the house on Dearborne Street.
After using the bathroom, I go into the living room. Though the room is dark, a light shines from the deck.
He’s sitting outside in an old wooden chair, wearing flannel pants and a faded 49ers sweatshirt, his gaze focused on the dark expanse of the ocean. I slide open the door and step out, catching my breath against the cold salty wind.
“What are you doing out here?” I cross warily to him, my bare feet aching on the old wooden deck. “It’s freezing.”
He rakes an unreadable gaze over me. “Go back inside.”
“Come with me.” Though I sense his withdrawal as if it were a wall, I take the risk of putting my hand on his shoulder. His muscles are tight, like bound wire. He smells clean and soapy, and the wound on his forehead is taped.
“I need to take you home,” he says.
What I hear is—I need to get away from you.
What I think is—You need me, Darius Hawke. Maybe more than you’ve ever needed anyone. Just like I need you.
I tug a fistful of his sweatshirt. “Come inside. I’m getting goose bumps.”
He pushes slowly to his feet and follows me inside, closing the glass door behind him.
The coffee he’d made earlier is still on the counter, now cold. I dump it in the sink and rummage around the cabinets for clean mugs. I fill them with water and instant coffee.
“It’s like a time capsule.” I punch the microwave timer buttons. “Being here, I mean.”
Too late, I realize I don’t want to bring up memories of the past. After our dinner at the Mediterranean restaurant, we’d agreed to “start new,” though obviously this isn’t what either of us had in mind at the time.