Page 61 of Nine Months to Love

“Stefan—”

“Tell me, Olivia.” His hand slides down my stomach, stopping just short of where I’m aching for him. “Do you think about my hands? My mouth?”

“Both,” I admit, shame pinking my cheeks. “I think about that first time in your office. How you put me on your desk and?—”

“And what?” His fingers trace maddening circles on my inner thigh. “How I tasted you? How you came apart on my tongue?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want that now?”

“I want everything.”

He groans, pressing his forehead against mine. “Goddammit, Olivia, you can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m trying to go slow. To make this last.”

“I don’t want slow.” I shift my hips, trying to guide his hand where I need it. “I want you to touch me like you did that night. As if you couldn’t help yourself.”

“That’s exactly the problem.” But his fingers finally, blessedly slide through my wetness, finding my clit. “I can never help myself with you.”

The first stroke makes me cry out, my back bowing off the bed. He watches my face intently and adjusts to make my moans grow louder and louder.

“Here?” He circles slowly. “Or here?” A direct stroke that makes me see stars.

“Both. Either. Just don’t stop.”

“Never.” He slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right, and my vision whites out. “God, you’re perfect. So wet for me. So responsive.”

“Only for you,” I gasp, and feel him shudder against me.

“Say that again.”

“Only for you, Stefan. Only ever for you.”

He kisses me hard, swallowing my moans as his fingers work me higher. But just as I’m about to tip over the edge, he stops.

“No!” I practically sob. “Why?—”

“Because I want to be inside you when you come.” He positions himself between my thighs, the hard length of him pressing against my entrance.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

“For you to tell me exactly how you want it.”

I meet his eyes, seeing my own desperate need reflected in those impossible blue-brown depths. “I want you deep. I want to feel you everywhere. I want you to make me forget everything but your name.”

“Such a good, good girl.” He pushes inside me slowly, stretching me, filling me completely. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

I force my eyes open, meeting his intense gaze as he starts to move. The connection—physical and emotional—is almost too much to bear.

“God, it’s perfect,” I gasp. “You feel perfect. Like you were made for me.”

“I was.” He hooks my leg over his shoulder, changing the angle, going impossibly deeper. “Every broken piece of me was shaped to fit your broken pieces.”

The poetry of it, the raw honesty, breaks something open in my chest. “Stefan, I?—”