Page 64

Unlike his withering soul, his body gleams with vitality. Oh, the irony. Tangible proof that mental and physical health can be as far apart from one another as the North and South Poles.
Slowly, I move my hand from his chest because I know temptation will hit me and I’ll want to touch more of him.
The need to roll into his arms, to tuck myself into him, to press every inch of me against every inch of him is so pervasive that I have to close my eyes and twist onto my back to evade the needs coursing through me.
They’re alien.
Dark.
New.
No longer attached to an ideal but to a man. A man whose touch I crave. Who I ache to explore with my fingers and mouth.
A shaky breath escapes me, making me aware that the dull throb of the migraine has faded. My body is focused solely on him.
As my chest heaves, my nipples brush my camisole. I removed my skinny jeans and blouse earlier, then dragged off my bra too, leaving behind the cami I wore underneath and my panties.
I’m very aware of how little I’m wearing.
And I’m even more aware of the powerful scent ofhimon the sheets.
It laces every breath I take. Is deep in the air around me until I know my skin is being caressed by it. By him.
My nipples bead, budding against the cotton fabric, rasping and rubbing in a way that doesn’t appease me. If anything, it’s sweet torture.
I can’t stop myself from snapping my hand up and squeezing one of them hard.
The sharp pain makes me whimper, and I have no choice but to anoint the other side. Pinching that other nub, I shiver, enjoying the sensation. My body itches with the need for more. Unusual and wicked urges fill me as I let my fingers drift down, slipping lower and lower until I rub them over the gusset of my panties.
Gnawing on my bottom lip when that sends a naughty twist of pleasure shuddering through me, I spread my legs some. Dragging the flat of two fingertips over the cotton makes me wet enough to feel it through the fabric.
This is wrong.
So wrong.
Wicked.
So wicked.
But I can’t stop myself.
I slip my fingers under my panties and touch myself. The caresses have another low whimper escaping me.
And that’s when it all goes to hell.
Fingers snap out and grab a firm hold of my wrist. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
I jerk in response to both his words and his touch, even as I twist my head to look at him.
My hips rock of their own volition, loving the feel of his skin against mine.
When he notices, he scowls. “Stop that!”
I bite my lip and force myself to come down, tocalmdown.
Closing my legs, I pull my hand away from my thighs, and I’m not altogether surprised when he keeps a tight clasp on it.
He doesn’t trust me not to do it again.