Page 43 of Held-

I glance down, realizing I'm still wrapped in his leather vest. The heavy patches gleam in the dim light filtering through the curtains—Heaven's Rejects in bold lettering. The mirror across the room shows my hair is wild from the wind and his hands, my cheeks flushed with desire, my lips swollen from his kisses. I barely recognize myself.

And I love it.

“Come here,” I demand, reaching for him.

He shakes his head slowly, a smile spreading across his face. “Not yet, princess. First, I want to see you.”

“You are seeing me,” I point out.

“Not all of you.” His hands go to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion that makes my mouth go dry. His torso is a masterpiece of muscle and ink, tattoos spreading across his chest and down his arms in intricate patterns I want to trace with my tongue.

“Your turn,” he says, and it's not a request.

I push his cut off my shoulders, letting it fall to the bed beside me. Then I reach for the hem of his hoodie pulling it over my head with far less grace than he managed. I'm suddenly grateful I wore my good bra today—black lace instead of the practical cotton I usually default to.

Brayden’s eyes deepen as they move over my newly exposed skin. “Fuck,” he breathes, the single word carrying so much awe it sends heat rushing through me.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the edge of my bra where it meets my skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

I've never felt beautiful with Ethan—pretty, maybe, when I was dressed up for his work functions. Attractive in the way a suitable accessory is attractive. But beautiful? Like this? Never.

“You don't have to say that,” I whisper, my hands finding his shoulders, needing to touch him, to ground myself in the reality of this moment.

He looks up at me. “I don't say shit I don't mean, Cece.”

His hands slide up my ribs, around to my back where he finds the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. He pauses, waiting for permission. I nod, unable to form words as anticipation tightens my chest.

The fabric falls away, and I resist the urge to cover myself. Ethan always made me self-conscious about my body—too curvy, not toned enough, never matching the women in the magazines he left around our bathroom. But Brayden’s gaze lands on me as though I’m something extraordinary.

“Christ,” he breathes, his hands hovering just inches from my skin. When his calloused palms finally cup my breasts, I gasp at the contrast between rough skin and gentle touch. His thumbs brush over my nipples, a small moan escaping my lips.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, leaning forward to replace one hand with his mouth. The hot, wet slide of his tongue sends a jolt through me, my fingers tangling in his hair to hold him closer.

My head falls back as he lavishes attention on my breasts, alternating between gentle kisses and hungry nips that have me squirming beneath him. I’ve never felt desire this sharp and insistent, overwhelming every rational thought until all that remains is emotion and urgency.

“Brayden,” I gasp as his teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot. “Please.”

He pulls back, looking up at me with a dark hunger. “Please what, princess? Tell me what you want.”

“I want…” The sentence stumbles, old habits clamping down before I can finish it. Then I meet his eyes, see the way he centers his whole attention on me, and suddenly the truth doesn’t feel so impossible to say. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

A smile—not his usual half-smirk but something genuine and devastating—spreads across his face. “That can be arranged.”

His hands move to the button of my jeans, flicking it open with practiced ease. I lift my hips as he slides them down my legs, taking my underwear with them in one smooth motion. The cool air hits my bare legs, raising goosebumps across my skin.

“Beautiful,” he says again, his eyes drinking me in as I lie before him, completely exposed. His hands run up my calves, over my knees, along my thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake. When his fingers reach the apex of my thighs, I hold my breath, anticipation coiling tight in my belly.

His thumb brushes over me, and my hips buck involuntarily at the contact. A smug smile plays at his lips as he repeats the motion, more deliberately this time.

“So wet already. Is that all for me, princess?”

“Yes,” I gasp as he applies more pressure. “Brayden, please.”

“Please what?” he teases, his fingers tracing maddening circles that have me writhing beneath his touch. “Use your words, Cece. Tell me exactly what you want.”

“Touch me,” I manage.

“I am touching you,” he points out, his wicked smile growing as his fingers continue their torturous path.