Page 42

By the time we pull apart, I'm dizzy and breathless.

So is he.

His chest is heaving. His jaw is clenched. His eyes, this close, have gone dark and hot, and there's a faint tremor in the arm he's propped himself on. He's fighting himself. I can see it.

He's holding back. For me.

"Are you all right?" His voice is rough. "Do you want to keep going?"

I don't feel uncertain anymore. Not even a little.

"Yes," I whisper.

He looks at me a long moment. Then he lays his hand on my knee, over the hem of the shirt.

Slowly, he slides it up my thigh.

I lie back against the pillows. My heart is pounding. A small, sensible part of me is still asking whether this is a good idea. But I trust him. I trust that if I say stop, he'll stop. And that trust is so new and so strange that I hold on to it with both hands.

His palm is warm and a little rough. It moves higher, inch by inch, until his fingers are resting at the very top of my thigh. Right there.

He stops.

"Elara?"

"Yes," I say. "Please."

He touches me.

It's so light at first. Barely anything. Just the tips of his fingers stroking over me, slow and gentle, learning me. But even that is so good that I gasp.

I'm wet. I'm so wet. I can feel it, and I can tell he feels it, too, because a low sound rumbles out of him against my temple.

He keeps going. Slow, soft circles. Then long, lazy strokes. Exploring. And it feels amazing. Better than anything I've ever felt in my life. My eyes slide shut, and before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm rocking up into his hand, chasing it.

Something warm starts to build. Low and sweet, climbing higher and higher.

His touch grows firmer. More sure.

Then his fingers brush over one little spot, and a jolt of pleasure shoots through me so sharp that I gasp out loud.

He doesn't stay there.

Gods, he doesn't stay. He moves away, stroking everywhere else, around and around, until I'm whimpering. Then he comes back. Brushes over it again. Leaves again.

Over and over.

Until I'm squirming against the sheets. Until I'm panting. Until I'm so desperate that I'm making sounds I've never heard come out of my own mouth.

"Zarek," I gasp. "Please."

And then he gives me what I need.

His fingers find that spot and stay, and he starts stroking, fast and firm and deliberate. Exactly right. Exactly there.

I grind against his hand. I twist my fists in the sheets. My whole body draws tight, tighter, like a bowstring pulled all the way back. I'm overwhelmed. I'm shaking. I need it. I need it so badly that I can't think.

And then I break.