Page 35 of The Equation of Us

I try to obey, but it’s difficult when every touch sends jolts of pleasure through me.

“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.

“Please, what?” His voice is steady and controlled, despite the way I can feel him hardening again beneath me.

“More. I need more.”

“Like this?” His hand slips beneath the waistband of my underwear, fingers sliding through slick heat to find my clit directly.

“Yes,” I gasp, my hips bucking involuntarily.

“I said stay still,” he reminds me, his grip on my hip tightening in warning.

I force myself to remain as motionless as possible while his fingers work magic, circling and stroking with devastating precision. It’s like he already knows exactly how to touch me, how much pressure to use, and what rhythm will drive me to the edge.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs against my ear. “So perfect like this.”

His praise washes over me, adding to the building pleasure. I’m close already, embarrassingly so, but I don’t want this to end.

“I want to feel you come,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “I want to feel you let go.”

His words, combined with the expert movement of his fingers, push me right to the edge.

“I can’t,” I gasp, though I’m not sure what I mean. Can’t come like this? Can’t hold back? Can’t process the intensity of what I’m feeling?

“You can,” he assures me. “I’ve got you. Let go, Nora.”

And just like that, I do. The orgasm hits me with stunning force, washing through me in waves that leave me trembling and breathless. Dean holds me through it, his fingers continuing their movement until I whimper from overstimulation.

Only then does he withdraw his hand, wrapping both arms around my waist instead, holding me against him as I come down from the high.

For several minutes, we just sit like that, my back to his chest, his arms around me, both of us breathing hard. I feel strangelypeaceful, my mind quiet for once, free of the constant chatter of thoughts and worries and plans.

Eventually, he turns me in his arms, shifting me so I’m facing him. His expression is softer now, the intensity replaced by something warmer.

“Okay?” he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet.

“Talk to me,” he prompts gently. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

What am I thinking? My brain feels pleasantly fuzzy, like I’ve had just enough wine to be relaxed but not drunk.

“That was…” I search for the right word. “Unexpected.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“I didn’t expect to feel so…” I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate it.

“Free?” he suggests.

“Yes.” That’s exactly it. “Like I could just… be. Not think, not plan, not worry. Just feel.”

He smiles, a real smile that transforms his usually serious face. “That’s the point.”

I realize I’m still sitting in his lap, wearing only my bralette and underwear, his arms around me. It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. It feels right, comfortable even.

“What happens now?” I ask.

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