Page 52 of Hold Me Tight

He pauses, as if waiting for me to say no.

To stop him.

But I don’t.

Can’t.

His hands rise before cupping my breasts. His palms are warm and steady, but it’s the way his thumbs sweep in unhurried circles over the sensitive peaks that has me going motionless. The feather-soft pass of his touch sends a wave of heat down my spine, a ripple that blooms through me until I feel it in places I didn’t know could ache.

A gasp slips free before I can stop it, and my back arches instinctively, offering myself to him before my mind has even made the choice. His movements are slow and purposeful. Measured in a way that feels like more than seduction.

It’s worshipful.

His hands trail lower, mapping every curve like a man memorizing a language he never wants to forget. The lush swell of my hips. The inviting curve of my thighs. Each stroke is maddening in its restraint. It’s not meant to tease but to savor.

My body hums with want, hips lifting from the porcelain in a silent plea for more, but he doesn’t rush.

Even as I tremble beneath him, I force myself to stay still and let him explore, to simply feel. Somewhere deep inside, I realize this is going to leave a mark. Not on my skin, but on the parts of me no one’s ever touched.

When his fingers finally graze the heat between my thighs, the pleasure that surges through me isn’t just sharp and electric, it’s surrender. It’s about being handled like something precious instead of something broken. It’s about being seen, scars and all, and still being wanted.

River touches me like he already knows every fragile piece I’ve tried to hide and he wants every single one of them.

“Should I keep going?” he asks, his tone rough and frayed, as if the words are scraping against the very edge of his control.

The warmth of his breath ghosts over the shell of my ear, and the low rasp of his question sets every nerve ending ablaze.

I nod, unable to stop myself, too overwhelmed to form words.

Instead of moving, he goes still, his hand resting just shy of where I need him most. Not pressing or teasing. Simply waiting for more than a silent yes.

“I need to hear you say it,” he says. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

A shaky sound slips from me. “Yes,” I whisper, barely louder than the ripple of water. “I want you to touch me.”

The effect is immediate.

I turn just enough to see his eyes darken, the blue turning stormy as something primal flashes in them. His jaw tightens as his hand flexes on my thigh like he’s holding himself back by sheer willpower alone.

“How long’s it been since you came?”

Heat floods my cheeks as shame slips in at the edges. “Before Nora.”

River curses. For a beat, he tips his forehead to mine. His fingers tighten at my hip, anchoring me in place.

“Jesus, Callie.” The way he says my name makes something deep inside me clench. “What about toys?” he asks quietly, eyes searching mine. “Nothing to take the edge off when you need it?”

A nervous, self-deprecating laugh catches in my throat. “No.”

His brow furrows as he leans back just enough to study me. “Why the hell not?”

I shrug in embarrassment. “There was never time. And it never felt important.”

His expression softens, the desire in his eyes not fading but transforming into something that feels like possession wrapped in devotion, fierce enough to protect me from the world, and gentle enough to make me want to hand over everything.

“You’re important,” he says. “And your pleasure is important too. Do you understand me?”

His mouth skims the corner of mine. It’s barely a kiss and more of a promise. “Now, I want you to ask for what you need.”