Page 16 of Pretty When It Burns (When The Lights Go Down #1)

His hand moves—slow, deliberate—up my thigh until his finger tips graze the hem of my pajama shorts. He pauses and locks his eyes on mine, like he’s giving me one last chance to pull away.

I don’t take it.

He slips his hand beneath the fabric on my leg, the coolness of his fingers making me gasp as they slide over the ache between my thighs.

He takes his damn time, and I’m this close to begging him to quit the teasing and take me.

His touch is maddening, dragging over the lace of my panties with sinful precision. Testing. Discovering. When he feels how wet I already am for him, a low, guttural groan rumbles from his throat—raw and possessive.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he rasps, his voice dark and reverent. “God, I want to drown myself in you. Is this all for me?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

He pushes me back on the couch so I’m lying flat on the cushions, pulling himself up until he hovers over me.

He settles between my legs and pushes them open wider.

I whimper as he traces slow, lazy circles through the black lace of my panties, my body arching toward him without thought, hips rolling with desperate need to bring him closer.

I’ve never wanted someone like this—not in body, not in soul.

He unravels me with nothing but his breath and his hands.

“So fucking ready for me,” he says huskily. “But I need to hear it.”

Still, he doesn’t move further.

“I’m waiting, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick with sin and silk, his lips grazing my cheek, then my jaw… until they land softly beside my ear. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper, barely able to form words. “Only yours.”

His eyes close like he needs that. Like my words save him.

And then his lips find mine.

It isn’t gentle.

It’s deep, desperate, and claiming—his tongue slides against mine with the kind of hunger that leaves me breathless. His fingers finally slip beneath my soaked panties, finding the center of me with practiced certainty, sliding into me in one slow, perfect stroke.

“Holy fuck,” I cry out, unable to control myself as I feel myself shaking in anticipation of his next move.

More, more, more. Don’t stop.

He moves like he already knows every inch of my body. Like he’s dreamed of this. Needed this. Needed me.

“Say it again,” he growls against my lips, hot and insistent.

“I’m yours,” I gasp.

“That’s right. Every damn inch of you.”

He works me with steady precision, curling his fingers just right, coaxing every moan from my lips.

His other hand slides under my top, pulling it up to expose my breasts, and he doesn’t hesitate before taking one in his mouth, sucking hard as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm.

My moans grow louder, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he groans against my skin. “I want you to come like this. I want to feel you coming apart on my hand.”

I grip onto his t-shirt, attempting to ground myself as I feel the heat of my impending orgasm pulsating through my body.

“Grayson, please,” I whimper, so close to the edge that it’s killing me.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs next to my ear.

Finally, the orgasm rips through me, blinding me, leaving my head spinning as the waves crash over me. I’m wrecked in the best possible way, amazed that I’ve been undone completely by just his hands.

No one has ever done that for me before. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve ever orgasmed from a man. Suddenly, it’s like I’ve never been touched by anyone else.

Now I don’t want to be—not ever again.

He’s wrecked me with just his fucking hand.

What will it be like when he takes me completely? Something ignites in my core just thinking about it, and I let out a whimper.

Still, even after my body has been completely shattered, his mouth never leaves mine. He kisses me again and again, each time rougher and hungrier than the last—the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anyone’s permission.

The kind that takes.

And I let it.

Because there’s no denying it anymore—I’m undoubtedly, completely his.

Later, still on the couch, wrapped in the lingering warmth of him, my breath finally evens out. My head rests against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek like it’s keeping time for both of us.

We haven’t said much—don’t need to. Our bodies have spoken loud enough, but neither of us move to close the space again. Not yet. Not tonight.

Grayson exhales slowly, brushing his thumb across my cheek as if he’s reminding himself I’m real.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says softly.

I look up at him, my eyes heavy, worn out in the best way.

“All I really want to do right now is bury myself in you for real,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “But I don’t want to rush this. We’ll talk more about what this all means in the morning. Tonight, I just want to be close to you.”

My breath hitches at the promise in his voice—at everything we haven’t said yet but both feel so clearly—but I nod against him.

Standing from the couch, I reach for his hand, lacing my fingers with his as I lead him to my bedroom.

We aren’t rushing.

We’re right where we need to be.