Page 63 of Braving the Storm

He makes a dark noise, sounding pleased and tortured that I’ve called him that for the first time since I arrived here.

“Truth time. If you were with him… lettinghimshow you things… who would you be thinking about?”

My back presses against his broad chest. The warmth of him blankets me as it did last night and my fingers curl against the cold metal on the side of the truck. I see the sight of his tattooed hand placed just beside mine.S.T.O.R.M.in black ink stares back at me,and right now, I would do incredibly slutty things to have that hand on me.

“Come on, little thorn. If he touched your sweet pussy, who would you have thought about?”

Swallowing down a whimper, a swarm of butterflies explodes in my stomach.

“What does it matter?” All notions have flown out of my head, and my blood races around my body, responding to the acres of contact between us. His arm banded across my stomach, his tight hold on me, that connection running the length of my spine.

“Would you be lost in the moment with your only thoughts being of him? Would he have you panting and writhing and desperate for him and him alone?”

“I don’t know why this matters to you.” I want the fact that he’s asking to mean something it doesn’t, and short of admitting that there is no earthly possibility of me being with another man andnotthinking about Stôrmand Lane, I don’t know what to say.

His mouth finds my ear, leaving goosebumps flying across every inch of my skin when he rumbles out his words. “Wouldn’t you prefer to learn with someone you can trust?”

“I’d say I can’t trust anyone.”

Storm’s fingers glide down the front of my jacket.His jacket.The one I can’t bring myself to stop wearing because I’m addicted to his scent.

With practiced efficiency, he unfastens the front, allowing the opening to hang freely.

“You liked what we did in the truck.” It’s a statement. A fact he knows to be true.

“Maybe.” Fluttering wings have taken off, causing a riot in my stomach.

He chuckles. “It’s ok to admit you did. I won’t tell anyone… besides, you trusted me last night.”

I pause, but my hips betray me. Giving away my immediate answer to that question when they follow his fingers softly tracing over the waistband of my jeans.

God, this man is too skilled, too expert in this. He’s got a bevy of women ready to throw themselves at his feet, or get up to whatever leads to losing their sanity and beauty products in his truck. Why the hell is he even looking twice my way?

“I liked it,” I breathe out, feeling shaky, but not wanting to break this spell.

He hums, a sexy, masculine noise, and that tattooed hand that had been pressed to the metal of the truck dwarfing mine, lifts and snakes down my belly.

My stomach caves as he uses both hands wrapped around me to deftly unbutton my jeans. There is every chance my heart may escape my throat, it’s thundering so hard.

“Wh—what are you doing?” A gasp bubbles up.

“Tell me, if you’d gone on your little date… and afterward he took you somewhere nice and private, if he slid a hand inside like this, and found you drenched, would it be his hand you wanted touching you, or someone else’s?”

As he murmurs those devious words, trapping me and enthralling me, because I can only pay attention to the place his fingers are on my body—on that band of flesh where my underwear sits, directly above my aching pussy—I lose focus far too easily.

Somehow, I’m supposed to locate words, when the only thing preoccupying my brain is each glide and searing, exploratory brush of his fingertips. No matter how hard I seek, not a single, adequate one is to be found.

Instead, I give him a hitch in my breathing, and what comes out as a tiny moan of pleasure when the calloused fingers I’ve watched handle horses and metal and show so much skill in every single thing this man does, make contact with my bare skin.

“Easy. Just breathe for me.” His voice is like gravel and honey as he nudges his nose along my jaw. At the same time, one hand dips beneath the fabric, moving lower and lower, and despite him telling me the opposite, I forget how to use my lungs.

“Oh god.” Another desperate little noise escapes my lips. Myfingers curl, nails scraping against the faded paintwork. How am I still standing? I’ve never had anyone touch me like this before, taking their time, teasing my body, exploring me gently. He presses against my lower stomach, adding a firm, soothing pressure to the softness there, and makes a satisfied noise before reaching my pussy.

“Jesus,” Storm exhales against my neck as his fingers discover the truth.

I’m soaking wet.

“We can’t…” My protest is futile, dying on the night air when his thick fingers dip into me, exploring and finding my swollen clit. We’re out in the open, surrounded by trees, the darkening sky, and a scattering of stars.