Page 104 of Over the Edge

“Yes,” I said, helping him with the button and zipper.

He slid the fabric down my legs with the same careful attention he’d shown my blouse, his eyes taking in every newly revealed part of me with appreciation rather than possession.

But when his fingers brushed against my inner thigh, I tensed again, a flash of panic rising unbidden.

“Not ready?” he asked, already moving his hand away.

“No, wait.” I caught his wrist. “I want this. I’m just—” I didn’t know. I wasn’t scared of him, but at the same time I was also terrified that one wrong touch would send me hurtling into memories I did.

“It’s okay.” His understanding nearly broke me. I’d spent so many years being strong, never showing fear, never admitting vulnerability. And here was Flynn, seeing my fear and accepting it without judgment.

“Try something for me?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Close your eyes and focus on my voice. On my touch. If another memory comes, tell me, and we’ll chase it away together.”

I did as he suggested, letting my eyes drift closed as his hands resumed their gentle exploration, touching me everywhere while his deep, sexy voice rumbled dirty nothings in my ear.

When the unwelcome memory of Moreau surfaced again, I whispered, “He’s here.”

“No,” Flynn said firmly. “He’s not. He’s dead. You killed him. There’s only you and me here.”

He was right. I had killed Moreau. I had taken back my power in the most final way possible. That realization washed through me like a cleansing wave, and I felt myself relax more fully.

“Kiss me,” I whispered, opening my eyes to find Flynn watching me with such tenderness it made my chest ache.

He lowered his mouth to mine, the kiss deep and unhurried. His hands framed my face again, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as if I were something precious. When we broke apart, I felt steadier, more present in my own skin.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded, reaching for the button on his jeans. “Your turn.”

Flynn stood to remove them, and I allowed myself to really look at him—the lean muscle, the scars both old and new that mapped his survival, the unmistakable evidence of his desire for me. His cock sprang free, thick and ready, jutting proudly from his body as he rejoined me on the bed. Warmth pooled between my thighs at the sight of him, my body responding despite the shadows still lurking in my mind.

He settled between my thighs, the weight of him above me feeling like shelter rather than confinement.

“How do you want this?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against my neck.

I traced the planes of his face with my fingertips, memorizing every line, every angle. “I want to see you,” I whispered. “I need to know it’s you.”

“Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he murmured, lips brushing my shoulder.

“Everything about this feels right.” I guided his hand between my legs. “Touch me.”

His fingers moved with exquisite care, stroking me through the thin fabric. I thought I would freeze, would flash back to that horrible moment Moreau violated me, but I didn’t. All I felt was Flynn touching me. All I saw was his worried eyes as he watched me.

“Flynn,” I groaned, arching into his barely there touch. “Please. I won’t break.”

The tightness in his expression eased a fraction. “I just want to get this right. For you.”

“You are.” I pulled him closer, needing the weight of him now, the solid reality of his body against mine. “You’re exactly what I need.”

He groaned softly and I felt a tremor go through him. His control was hanging on by a thread. “I’m trying to be gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle,” I whispered against his lips, curling my fingers around his wrist and grinding my hips against his hand. “I wantyou.”

His breathing hitched as I guided his hand beneath the fabric of my underwear, both of us groaning when his fingers slid through my wetness. The feeling was electric, his touch igniting something deep inside me that had nothing to do with the physical sensations and everything to do with choice—my choice to be here, with him, like this.

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