Page 37 of Worshiping Faith

Zachs lifts me with ease, carrying me to the bed like I weigh nothing.

His skin is still damp from the shower, and so is mine, the cool air raising goosebumps along my arms as he lowers me onto the mattress.

He unwraps the towel slowly, like a gift he’s taking his time to unveil. When his gaze drags over me, I stop breathing.

Because that look, that’s how I look at him.

Like he’s perfect. Like every inch of him is something I want to explore, touch, memorize.

And he looks at me the exact same way.

He doesn’t move quickly. Doesn’t rush.

Instead, he sits at the foot of the bed, fingers ghosting over my ankle, tracing slow, deliberate lines up my calf.

His lips follow the path his hands take, pressing soft, reverent kisses to my skin.

One.

Then another.

The faintest brush of his breath against my knee makes my thighs tremble.

“Zachs.”

He doesn’t answer. His only response is to kiss higher, his mouth barely skimming the inside of my thigh.

The anticipation is exquisite torture.

The heat of his breath. The way his hands never stop moving, massaging, caressing, learning me.

Then…

His tongue flicks against me, the softest, most teasing stroke imaginable.

I arch so sharply my spine leaves the bed.

I’m already so close it’s humiliating.

“Oh my God.”

Zachs hums against me. The sound alone nearly wrecks me.

The next slow, luxurious stroke of his tongue does.

I lose it. Completely.

My hands fist in his hair, my thighs tighten around his head, and I scream his name, shaking so violently I might come apart at the seams.

I expect him to stop.

He doesn’t. He presses a kiss just below my navel, and when I finally gather the strength to look down, his eyes are already on me.

Watching. The weight of his gaze between my legs is an entirely new kind of devastation.

“Fuck.” I reach for him. Desperate.