Page 247 of Faking the Goal

I'm not sure there's ever a way back.

Our gazes lock, a silent conversation passing between us that makes my breath catch. Then, slow and deliberate, he slides a hand onto my thigh. I shudder, every nerve ending firing at once, my skin supercharged by the tingling sensation of his touch. His thumb strokes the inside of my knee, up and down. I'm hyperaware of myself, of the thin fabric of my sleep shorts, the unevenness of my breathing, how my fingers curl into the sheets because I've forgotten how to relax.

His gaze never leaves mine—if anything, it's even more intense now, like he's waiting for a signal. A permission.

My self-control is a staircase with the bottom few steps missing, and I am teetering at the edge with no intention of saving myself.

I want this, whatever it is, even if it means breaking every rule I've set for myself.

I want it until I'm hollow and shaking and don't care who hears.

He leans in, not to kiss me, but to brush his cheek along my jaw, his stubble scratching in a way that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. The tiniest huff of his breath hits the shell of my ear, and I can't help it—I moan, just a little, just enough for him to notice.

He laughs, very quietly, and his hand creeps higher, a half-inch at a time, trailing slowly along the inside of my thigh.

My legs are open for him already, shameless, and I'm not even pretending I'm not desperate anymore. His mouth is at my ear now, so close he could probably taste my sweat.

"Do you want me to keep going?" he asks, not as a tease, but in a tone so low and sure that it vibrates all the way through my chest.

I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

I nod, once, hard and fast, like if I hesitate for a second he'll stop and it will all go away. But he doesn't stop—he just grins, wide and wolfish, and slides his hand up to the waistband.

I should say something—make a quip, or a joke, or at least a sound—but I'm frozen, waiting to see what he'll do next. It's not that I'm scared, not exactly. It's more like I'm in a plane right before takeoff, strapped in and vibrating with the anticipation of freefall.

When he hooks his finger into the waistband, I tense, expecting him to yank them down right away, but instead he just lets his knuckle rest there, barely inside, like he's giving me a last out.

I don't take it. I want him to know I'm in this for real.

He pulls his hand away, and I nearly protest. I'm so keyed-up I want to claw at him for taking it away. But then I see what he's doing, and it makes my whole body spasm: he brings two fingers to his lips and sucks them into his mouth, slow and deliberate. His eyes stay locked on mine the entire time, and the look is so feral, so possessive, I forget how to be embarrassed by it.

He slides his hand back down, and this time he doesn't hesitate. I feel his wet knuckles slip under the waistband and then his fingertips are right there, brushing over my clit like he's flipping a switch. My entire body arches, my hips bucking up off the couch, and I make a choking sound that isn't even remotely dignified.

I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified that I might wake the whole building.

His other hand is braced on my thigh, holding me open, and every time he circles my clit I can feel my legs wanting to snap shut. He won't let me. He uses his thumb to press down, just enough to make the nerves go haywire, and then he dips two fingers down and inside, curling them up so perfectly I see actual white light.

"Oh, fuck! Yes!" I gasp, and he grins, rubbing the heel of his palm over my mound with slow, even pressure.

"You like that?" he says, and the way he says it is so knowing, so cocky, I almost hate him for it.

I try to answer but all that comes out is a whine, so he leans in and says, "I want to hear you. I want to hear how much you like it." He pulls my hand away from my mouth and pins it to the mattress, never breaking rhythm with his fingers.

"Don't keep your moans from me, Trouble." His voice drops, rough with something that makes my entire body shiver. "Do you have any fucking idea how long I've wanted to hear what you sound like? Don't hide it from me now."

My eyes lock with his, and Jesus fucking Christ.

Whatever hesitation I had left doesn't stand a chance against the look he's giving me. There's something almost feral in his eyes now, all that usual control stripped down to this raw, unmistakable hunger that tells me he wants this every bit as much as I do. And somehow, that's all it takes. Every worry that had been circling my head earlier gets drowned out by the sudden riot of hormones tearing through me, every single one apparently taking one look at Kentaro Azuma staring at me like that and deciding now would be an excellent time to go completely fucking berserk.

I don't look away.

If anything, I meet that heat with every bit of my own.

And just like that, the last of my inhibition disappears.

I can't stop the sounds that come out of me—half-sobs, half-moans, high and completely unselfconscious.

He works me faster, adding a third finger, and I can feel myself getting so wet it's obscene. I have never felt this out of control, never cared less about being in control. I want to drown in this feeling, in him, in the way he doesn't hold back or make me feel weird for wanting it so badly.