He moaned, eyelashes flickering, like I’d blown dust in his eyes. But his jaw was tight, his teeth on edge.
“Kat.”
“Yes Dan?” I answered sweetly.
I couldn’t remember ever being so raw and desperate and turned on. He still had most of his clothes on and not a single article had been removed from my body. And yet, I felt wild, mindless, drunk on his reaction to my touch.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I angled my chin closer to his mouth so we shared a breath and continued to stroke him over his clothes.
He felt impossibly hard, and I had a fleeting thought, wondering if it were painful for him and sadistically hoping that it was. I hoped it hurt. I hoped he wanted me so much he couldn’t think straight.
But the thought was driven away by a rising ache within me, frantic and agonizing.
“Touch me,” I heard my voice say. I watched one of my hands move to and tangle with his. On autopilot, I brought his fingers to my thigh, encouraging him to lift my skirt, guiding him to the tormenting throb at my center.
He groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. Dan touched me over my underwear, stroking me covetously, his breathing labored.
“You’re so wet.” His voice dropped, deeper than the naughty-secret level, to something infinitely baser.
I nodded, not sure why I was nodding.
“Touch me.” The words were inane, because he was already touching me. I wanted more, so I said, “More.”
“Kat.”
“Please,” I begged.
“Fuck.”
Dan charged forward, backing me against the wall, his mouth crashing to mine, his kiss mercenary, incendiary. Fingers wrapped in my hair and he pulled, forcing my chin upward as his other hand slid into the waistband of my panties and parted me. Though his kiss was rough, his strokes were slow, lightly rubbing circles. This, too, was torture. Wicked, wonderful torture.
I gasped, struggling for air, my nails scratching down his sides on the way to his fly. Touching him, holding him in my hands and stroking his hot skin was the only option. I had no choice. I needed to feel him. I needed it.
But as soon as I had his zipper undone, he pulled his hands from my body and caught my wrist, wrenching it away. Then he turned and stalked to the other side of the room. His hands coming to the back of his neck, he threaded his fingers together.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He was shaking his head, facing the opposite wall, still breathing hard. “Fuck.”
I hadn’t recovered, was nowhere close to recovering, so I stumbled after him as though pulled, following him across the room like an infatuated puppy, hungry for his attention.
I reached for him. “Dan—”
He flinched away from my touch, placing new distance between us. “Just give me a minute, okay?”
My stomach dropped, sobering me, and I nodded. I stepped back, trying to find a place in the small space where I wouldn’t be crowding him, at a loss as to what to do or where to look.
This is why you need a flowchart.
I returned to the far wall, placing my back against the corner and waited, my gaze settling on a team poster of the Bruins from 1997 as I tried my best to not jump to the worst conclusion. I wouldn’t think the worst, I wouldn’t. Not with Dan. He’d never given me a reason to think anything but the best. I would be reasonable, not neurotic.
I stood there, regulating my breathing, thinking back over the last few minutes, immersing myself in the memory of how it had felt to be touched by him, teased, kissed. I’d lost control. I hadn’t been thinking. I wanted him and the wanting had seemed like the only thing that mattered.
“No orgasms.”
I looked at him, blinking through the haze of my recollections. “What?”
“Your lady,” he still stood on the other side of the room, his hands on his narrow hips, his gaze moving over me, “she said no . . . orgasms.” He said orgasms like the saying of it was painful.
“So?”
“So. We’re doing this right.” His tone was firm.
“Dan—”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to fuck you.”
An image of that, of what that would look like, flashed behind my eyes and made my knees weak. I leaned completely against the wall behind me, my gaze dropping of its own accord to his torso.
“I do want. So, I’m not sure how to not look like that.”
“Cross your eyes, make a face or something.”
I stared at him for several seconds, and then covered my overheated cheeks, laughing—not because I found this funny—because I was frustrated.
Meanwhile, Dan paced the room. I peeked at him from between my fingers. He was a restless wolf, prowling a cage.