Page 101 of Worshiping Faith

He huffs a laugh, hands sliding down my back. “Fine. I’ll let you make love to me then,” he teases, dipping his head to nip my jaw. “Save my energy for the road.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Faith

I can’t think. He’s going. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

So I do the only thing I can. I take his pleasure into my hands.

I tug his shirt over his head, my fingers trailing over every scar, everyalmost lost himthe world tried to carve into his skin. Each one is a story of survival, a whispered promise that he always comes back.

This time will be no different. It can’t be.

I press my fingers against his chest and push him backward, guiding him toward the bed with slow, deliberate steps.

His hands fall to his belt, but I bat them away. Not tonight.

I undo his pants myself, sliding the zipper down inch by inch, letting my knuckles brush against the heat of him. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t rush me. Just watches with hungry eyes as his pants hit the floor.

“Get in the bed,” I say, my voice softer than I expect.

He bites his lip, amusement flickering across his face even as he obeys, sitting at the edge to kick off his boots and work the denim all the way off. My eyes snag on the bandage wrapped around his calf, but I force myself to look away. He wouldn’t rest, so I’ll give him the next best thing.

I strip, slow, his eyes tracing every inch of bare skin as it’s revealed. The air between us thickens, the space shrinking, collapsing.

Then I move between his legs, kneeling before him, and he knows.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he mutters, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab me.

I take him in my hand first, stroking slow, dragging my fingers along every ridge, every velvet inch of him.

His head tilts back, a sharp breath sucked through his teeth. His fingers tangle in my hair, gentle, but shaking. He’s always in control, always the one teasing, worshiping, drawing it out.

Not tonight.

I lick along his length, watching him, studying every tiny reaction. His chest heaves, stomach tightening, the muscles in his thighs clenching.

I take him into my mouth, slow, savoring the feel of him, the taste, the way he curses under his breath and tightens his grip in my hair, but doesn’t push. Doesn’t force.

Because he’s feeling this, the way I want him to.

When I pull back, dragging my tongue along the underside of his cock, his eyes snap to mine, glazed with heat, with more.

“Jesus, Doc,” he rasps. His thumb sweeps across my cheek, softer than I thought Zachs could be. “Gonna ruin me, aren’t you?”

A thrill rolls through me. I want to. “Lay down.”

He does.

I crawl up his body, straddling him, positioning myself above him. His hands find my hips, his fingers flexing, but he doesn’t pull. He’s waiting for me.

I sink down, slow, stretching, taking him in inch by inch.

A groan rips from his throat, deep and wrecked, and I swear it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.

I move. Not fast. Not desperate. Slow. Deep. Every movement designed to make him feel me, every squeeze, every drag, every inch of heat pulling him deeper.

My hands trace his scars, mapping him, learning him. Down his ribs. Across his stomach. He’s so beautiful. So tragic. So mine.