Page 166 of His Drama Queen

But his hands linger at the hem of the borrowed t-shirt. Slip barely beneath it, calloused palms against my bare skin. The touch is still gentle, still focused on soothing, but there's heat building between us now.

I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, but his expression is pure concern. "Tell me to stop and I will," he says. "This is about what you need. Nothing else."

"I need—" My voice breaks. "I need to feel wanted. To feel like I matter to someone."

"You matter to me." His hands slide up my sides, taking the shirt with them. "You always have. From the first time I saw you."

He helps me sit up enough to pull the shirt over my head, leaving me bare from the waist up. For a stretch we look at each other—his eyes tracking over my body with open appreciation that makes heat pool low in my belly.

Then he leans down and kisses my shoulder. Soft. Reverent. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "So perfect."

His mouth trails kisses across my back, following the path his hands took. Each one gentle, worshipful, designed to soothe rather than inflame. But my body is responding anyway—skin flushing, breath quickening, that ache building between my thighs.

The scent of my slick fills the air between us. Sweet and desperate. Unmistakable.

Oakley inhales sharply, his hands stilling on my skin. "Vespera—"

"I can't help it." My voice is small, embarrassed. "The massage, your touch, it—"

"Don't apologize." He turns me over carefully, arranging me on my back so he can see my face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but his expression is pure tenderness. "Your body knows what it needs. Let me give it to you."

"Oakley—" His name comes out needy.

"I know." He settles between my thighs, hooking his fingers in my sleep shorts. "I've got you, little star. Let me take care of you properly."

He slides the shorts down my legs slowly, reverently, and the cool air against my slick-dampened skin makes me shiver. His cedar scent deepens, warming with arousal, but his movements stay gentle. Controlled.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, pressing kisses to the inside of my knee. My thigh. Higher. "So perfect like this. Letting me care for you."

"Please—" I arch toward him, desperate for his touch.

"Shh." His breath ghosts over my center, making me whimper. "Not rushing this. You need soft right now. Need gentle. Need to be worshipped."

The first touch of his tongue is devastating in its tenderness. A long, slow lick that makes my purr stutter back to life, deeper than before. He takes his time, learning every inch of me with patient attention that has nothing to do with his own pleasure and everything to do with mine.

"That's it," he encourages between long, languid strokes. "Let me hear you. Let me know I'm taking care of my Omega."

The possessive sends a fresh wave of slick, and he groans against me. But he doesn't speed up, doesn't lose that careful control. Continues his slow, thorough worship, like he has all the time in the world to learn what makes me fall apart.

His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples in time with the movement of his tongue. The dual sensation makes me cry out, my hands fisting in his hair.

"Oakley, fuck—"

"No fucking," he says, pulling back enough to meet my eyes. His lips are slick with me, eyes dark with want but infinitely gentle. "This. Me making you feel good. Making you feel wanted. Making you remember that you matter."

Then his mouth is back, circling my clit with maddening patience. Building me up slowly, carefully, like I'm something precious that might break if he's not careful enough.

And maybe I am. Maybe that's exactly what I am right now.

The orgasm builds gradually, a slow tide rather than a crashing wave. Oakley works me through it with the same patient attention, never rushing, never demanding, giving and giving and giving until I'm shaking with it.

"Let go," he murmurs against me. "I've got you. You're safe. You're wanted. You're mine."

I come apart with a sound that's half sob, half moan, my body arching off the bed as pleasure rolls through me in long, slow pulses. Not intense. Not overwhelming. Relief. Pure, sweet relief after days of tension and hurt and fear.

Oakley works me through every aftershock, gentling his touches as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my thighs, my hips, my stomach. When he finally crawls back up my body, his expression is satisfied in a way that has nothing to do with his own arousal—still evident in his sleep pants—and everything to do with having taken care of me.

"Better?" he asks softly, gathering me back into his arms.